


Stay Alive

by VeniaStark



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Violence, Gen, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Rated For Violence, Vampire Dream, Vampire Technoblade, Vampires, Work In Progress, Zombies, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeniaStark/pseuds/VeniaStark
Summary: Despite what everyone thought, no one was prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Scattered survivors do their best to get by, but surviving just for the sake of surviving can wear a person down. And with scientists testing the limits of genetic manipulation and the virus itself, survivors may have to worry about more than just zombies. Will they be able to withstand what the apocalypse throws at them and stay alive, or will they succumb to the chaos that has left the world in ruin?
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Zak Ahmed & Technoblade
Comments: 20
Kudos: 126





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Zombie apocalypse AU's are my absolute fav to write, but I hadn't written one yet and was inspired to start by Sock's amazing MCYT zombie AU comic book on Twitter (@o0oSocko0o). Would recommend taking a look at if you like zombies and MCYT and haven't seen it yet.  
> The first chapter is a bit lacking in named Minecraft characters (though they are there), but that'll changes as we get past the prologue.  
> I'd like to commit to a schedule for when I plan on updating this, but I'm terrible at actually keeping a schedule (university life, joy), so I'll update where I can, especially if there's interest in this. Thanks for reading!

_“…Cases continue to climb with no end in sight. Boston has officially been placed under military quarantine, but with some cases already developing outside the city, some government officials wonder if it’s enough to…”_

The scientist turned the TV off with a sigh, running his hand through his hair in frustration. He was certain his lab could help with the new virus going around, but instead, he was stuck with a military project that the government refused to have him stop working on. He stared down at his paperwork, hundreds of pages of failed designs, wondering what the missing component was. Hypothetically, the genetic components were perfect—he’d learned how to modify the exact, correct portions of the human genome to obtain the desired results. But actually modifying a whole person’s genome… he just didn’t have the technology for it. There was no way for the modification commands to reach every single cell. He’d tried dozens—hundreds, even—of different delivery methods, from bacteria to viruses and even newly designed chemical carriers that hadn’t even been fully tested, but none of them were what he needed. Most of them were too specific in where they attacked. He needed…

“No. It couldn’t be that… couldn’t be that simple.” He closed notebook after notebook, moving them off his desk until he could reach his keyboard, shaking his mouse to wake the computer up. He started drafting an email, wondering if his request would be denied.

But much like with any request when it came to this project, it was approved, as he discovered several hours later when he was woken by an intern, saying there was a delivery he had to sign for. He stumbled out of bed, pulling on a lab coat, and readjusting his glasses to try and bring the world back into focus. He’d expected a delay in response for actual approval—he hadn’t anticipated the material arriving so soon.

He started working as soon as the canister had been signed over though. This project would be dangerous, but if it worked the way he wanted… the risk would be worth it.

_“…Los Angeles is the latest city to be placed under quarantine. All residents are required to stay inside...”_

_“…New Zealand has closed its borders. No one will be allowed to come or go except for those who can prove citizenship, and they will be placed under a two-week quarantine at sea before being allowed onto land…”_

_“…Osaka is the latest city to announce that it will attempt quarantine, though at this point many experts believe it may be too late for most cities to…"_

He stared down at the PCR results, wondering if he was reading them correctly. After so many failures, after so many months, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see this. He called in a few of the remaining lab techs, asking them to double check the results. All of them were cautious, all of them too tired to hope. But one by one, they all agreed—it had worked. The side-by-side comparison of a regular human sequence with that selected from the modified cells, cultured inside of several different mice, showed the key results that he’d been fighting for years to obtain.

His results got immediate attention from higher-ups when he told them of his success. It was much to his surprise when he was told he’d be moving on to human trials immediately—most processes like this required years of trials in mice and other animals before being moved on to humans. But those in charge insisted upon it, saying time was of the essence now. And with the news broadcasts—those that were still running—depicting a rapidly crashing world, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face being fired for not cooperating.

Human trials started not more than a week afterward. The first trials were messy, with the virus resuming its normal behavior and infecting patients the way it did outside the lab, and those patients were quickly terminated. All in all, the scientist watched nearly one hundred patients succumb to the virus before he saw his first success.

It was a younger man than the rest. Most patients had been around twenty-five to thirty years old, but this young man was only twenty-one. But with the promise of safety for his family—guaranteed military protection, safe housing, and food to eat—he’d signed on immediately. The scientist flipped through the file, wondering how terrible things could have gotten outside his lab—he’d stopped turning on the TV to find out. But here the young man was, slated to be patient 100.

And much to the scientist’s surprise, the trial was a success. He’d constantly modified the virus, trying to reduce its ability to reproduce and spread. And now, it looked like he’d found the perfect combination. Rather than succumbing to the virus, the patient survived those crucial twenty-four hours after infection, though he was kept strapped down when the infection continued to take hold. Eventually soldiers had to be sent in to tie the young man down with thick steel restraints when he tore through the simple leather straps he’d been tied down with, and the scientist noted it for next time, so no one had to be put at risk. But it seemed the risk was low; assessment of the air in the room revealed no viral particles—he’d successfully modified the virus after all, and it was no longer contagious.

The young man woke up a week after his initial injection. He was disoriented, but reassurance over the speakerphone built into the room calmed him.

The tests that followed did not, however. As much as the scientist wanted to claim that trial 100 was a resounding success, he couldn’t claim that until he was entirely certain the results they were looking for had been achieved.

Patient 100 was then put through multiple tests to see his ability to withstand infection from other pathogens. And much to the scientist’s delight, he survived all infections without so much as a single symptom—his newly boosted immune system never even flinched, even when it encountered pathogens like Ebola and the bubonic plague. And as for strength and endurance, the scientist had never seen such feats, and any physical trauma was almost immediately healed. It was why he authorized trial 101, thinking that if this could be replicated, perhaps his work could be considered a success. Maybe then he’d be able to start working on what he actually wanted to work on—a cure for the virus still ravaging the world outside.

A similar patient was chosen for trial 101–a twenty-one-year-old male, this time from Florida instead of California, signing up for the same promise of protection for his family. Much like before, it would take a week for the transformation to take place, but this time the scientist got to examine more closely what occurred rather than wondering if his patient was going to survive. A lot of the symptoms he saw even in patient 100, but now he got to properly watch them develop. One of those symptoms—one that had nearly convinced him patient 100 had died on the table—was a reduced heartbeat and breathing pattern. It was an unintended side effect, but it appeared that the changes to their body resulted in a reduced need for oxygen. He also took samples throughout the trial, comparing various tissue makeups as the trial progressed. Most samples seemed nearly indestructible, though he did discover that UV light, in sufficient quantities, did break apart the cells. An unfortunate side effect, but not one he could modify without completely starting over.

Even as he waited for patient 101 to complete his transformation, the scientist pressed forward with making sure patient 100 was still stable. His mental state had taken a turn lately, refusing to listen to authority and demanding more freedoms; the shy boy he’d been upon arriving at the facility had slowly been replaced by an arrogant young man who knew he could get what he wanted with a simple demand. The scientist just hoped it was a natural part of his behavior and not a side effect of the procedure.

He should’ve known better than to hope something could go right with this experiment, after so long with things going wrong.

Even as he headed for 100’s containment area, humming softly to himself, alarms started going off, the facility locking itself down. The scientist abandoned his meandering pace, breaking into a run. There were only two experiments that lockdown could be initiated for, and since he’d just left behind patient 101, it could only be patient 100.

Soldiers met him halfway there, and they found patient 100’s room locked down. A quick review of video footage revealed 100 had started shouting at the workers who’d been in the room with him, demanding something; there was no audio for the scientist to discern what 100 had wanted. But it hadn’t taken long for the young man to realize that the strength he had could easily be used in his frustration, because he’d picked up a table and thrown it—a worker inside had barely been able to dodge in time, and the table had shattered into splinters against the wall. Two out of the three workers had escaped before the steel doors shut, but 100 had grabbed the last worker by the back of her shirt, keeping her from making it out as the doors locked.

What the scientist wasn’t expecting, however, was for 100 to act like any regular person infected by the virus—100 leaned down and tore out the girl’s neck, blood spraying across his face and staining his white clothing. Had the experiment failed after all? Had the virus just taken longer to take control of its host?

He spoke to the two workers who’d made it out, questioning what had induced 100’s rage. One worker’s words made him take pause. _Blood_ , she said. _He said the voices demanded blood_.

What did that mean?

The scientist examined the camera to see what 100 was doing in real time. It seemed his rage had cooled, because he’d retreated to his bedroom, where no cameras could see him. The worker’s body had been left in the middle of the room, but considering she’d likely bled out, there was suspiciously little blood on the white tile floor, and none of it was where she was lying—all of it was where her throat had been torn out originally.

When he questioned it, one of the security guards offered an uneasy answer. _We think he drank it._

What was he supposed to do with that? He knew that the infected beyond their lab hungered for flesh, but blood? Blood was inconsequential to the infected.

Despite that, after a few hours, it seemed that 100 was no longer enraged, and he even emerged from his room to set the room to rights, turning furniture the right way up and cleaning up the broken furniture as best he could. He studiously avoided the body in the middle of the room, working around it, but otherwise was acting normal.

The scientist sent in a worker—one who didn’t know of 100’s rage—in to find out. 100 acted cordially, requesting something to read and twelve uninterrupted hours. The body of the other worker was removed, and the room returned to its original state. After that, 100’s twelve hours began, and the scientist settled in to watch.

100 never once emerged from his room during those twelve hours. He completely ignored the food that was delivered for him, and the bathroom went unused as well. The scientist, curious about why 100 was ignoring basic needs, extended 100’s alone time, and continued his watch.

In the end, 100 went nearly 72 hours before leaving his room, and it was only to place the book on the table and stare unblinkingly at the cameras.

The next time someone went in to deliver food, the scientist sent a new book with them, and 100 willingly took the book and disappeared back into his room, again leaving the food untouched.

At that point, the scientist stopped sending food in, deciding that because of the food shortage, if 100 wasn’t going to eat, they were going to stop wasting food on him. And once again, around 72 hours passed before 100 left his room, once again requesting a new book, but nothing else.

This was something the scientist was left to puzzle over as he left security. He knew that 100’s heartbeat and breathing were greatly slowed, but had it resulted in a slowed metabolism as well? From what he knew of animals with slower metabolism, though, they were generally inactive—most of them were cold-blooded and relied on the sun. Patient 100, however, hadn’t seen the sun since his transformation, and he’d been active prior to his extended periods of reading. What had changed? Where was he getting this energy from?

Perhaps he’d be able to find out with patient 101, who, according to his interns, was finally waking from his transformation.

The young man appeared as disoriented as 100 had been upon waking, and the scientist sent in a worker to explain his circumstances. After finding out that his family was safe, 101 calmed, and he complied with instructions given to him to take him to his own set of rooms. Most of the workers were reassured by his quiet demeanor, but the scientist didn’t miss 101’s eyes darting back and forth, taking everything in. Nothing had been mentioned in 101’s files about his intelligence or past school performance—Florida’s school records had gone missing when most of the power grid failed—but the scientist guessed this young man wasn’t one to rely on simple brute strength.

The next several weeks went by without incident. 100 didn’t do much other than read or play board games with the few workers brave enough to enter his rooms, while 101 acted like a normal person, eating and sleeping on a regular schedule and cooperating with experiments that the scientist needed to run.

It was when the scientist was looking into subjects for trial 102 when things went sideways.

It seemed like a normal day. 100 had refused an offer of food as was typical, and 101 had just finished working out, testing his own limits as he often did. But 101 became unusually still, his head tilted to the side as if he was waiting to hear something.

That something came in the form of 100 charging the doors of his rooms. The sirens went off immediately, the rooms going into lockdown with extra doors sealing shut as protection. Stumbling into security, the scientist gasped when he realized three workers lay dead in 100’s rooms, the guards reporting all three being drained of blood. And now, 100 was attempting to break through the doors, and he wasn’t having a difficult time of it—already the normal set of doors was caved in, and it wouldn’t take him much to pry them open with the gap widening between them.

The scientist gave the order to gas the room; hopefully the anesthesia would kick in before 100 could break through too many locks and into the halls, where the gas would be ineffective. Patient 100 paused when he heard the gas hissing through the vents, but he shrugged and continued his work. Within in a minute or two, the room was full of the gas, but 100 never slowed. It was then that it dawned on the scientist that with a reduced need to breathe, 100 likely wasn’t breathing in any of the gas at all. Really, with the immunity shown by both 100 and 101, it was unlikely that any sedative could put him under.

They would need to evacuate.

They couldn’t fight 100—he was designed to be virtually indestructible, and it was only by his own choice that he had remained in the facility. There had never been any hope of using him as a soldier—prototypes rarely made it to the field. As it was, this proved that something would have to be done in later models to subdue a need for violence, if it presented itself. There’d need to be a kill switch, in any case.

In the end, though, in the midst of evacuating, someone above the scientist made the call—they should release 101 to deal with 100. It wasn’t ideal, but 101 hadn’t shown hostile tendencies toward workers, and he was the only one who had the strength to match 100.

The scientist himself was the one tasked with informing 101 of the details of his release. It was the first time the scientist had come in contact with one of his experiments in person, and he was unsure of how the workers brought themselves in range of these creatures every day; something about 101 was incredibly unsettling. But 101 simply nodded in agreement as the scientist detailed what he had to do, and he followed the scientist at a respectful distance, his head down, passing the locked doors that had kept him sealed away since his transformation.

It was when they had reached the end of the hall that the scientist intended to part with 101—he had no interest in approaching 100 with him still tearing apart the facility in his anger. He promised to meet 101 here later, hopefully after he’d incapacitated 100. He pointed out the direction 100 should be in, and received a noncommittal noise from 101, who only questioned how close 100 was to breaking out of the lab.

Answering that question was a mistake the scientist immediately regretted. 100 was unfortunately very close to breaking out, with only a single set of doors between him and freedom. That made 101’s green eyes gleam, and his smirk bared sharp, pointed canines that the scientist hadn’t realized he had.

Those teeth closed on his neck in an instant, 101 moving faster than he could follow. The scientist cried out, hands scrabbling at his belt for the gun he usually carried. But 101 easily slipped it from the holster and shoved it into one of the loose pockets of his clothing. Lights flickered overhead as the power started to fail—the scientist guessed 100 had gone after the generators. It would certainly open the doors out. His strength was failing as well, and he hypothesized that the strange fanglike canine teeth were the reason the victims in 100’s rooms had been drained of blood.

Hysterical laughter escaped him in his dying moments as 101 left him behind, joined after a moment by a wary 100, who nodded in greeting to 101, but remained distant. They headed for the door out, and the scientist was left to die as he heard them smashing through the only door between them and the outside world.

He’d hoped to create a cure for the zombie virus, but instead, he’d given the ravaged world vampires.

_May God have mercy on them all._


	2. Sapnap

“Holy... _run!_ ”

Sapnap ran. His shoes skidded across the fallen leaves that had blown into the mall, nearly losing his balance. All that kept him from falling over entirely was a tall pillar holding up the walkway for the second floor, and he held onto it momentarily to make sure he was balanced before lurching into a run again, hearing groans behind him.

A quick glance back revealed that he was not the only one having trouble maintaining his footing, at least. The zombies, uncoordinated in the best of times, were having trouble gaining much speed on the leaf-littered tile floor, which, while it hadn’t been waxed in some time, was still quite slippery on its own.

“Don’t stop!” The other young man he’d been traveling with had doubled back, and he tugged on Sapnap’s arm. “Come on, we gotta go!”

Sapnap hadn’t even realized he’d stopped to stare. He slid across the floor after his companion, heading for the exit. They passed by several collapsed tents, and if they’d had more time, Sapnap would’ve searched through them for supplies. But there was never enough time, and he darted through the broken glass doors at the front of the mall, the rain drenching him almost immediately.

“I’d hoped it stopped raining.” His companion grimaced. “Gonna be a pain to run in this.”

“At least they’ll have a harder time seeing us.”

“I guess. Let’s go.”

Sapnap didn’t argue, knowing that the small pack of zombies would soon be out the door behind them. But even as they hurried down the quiet street, Sapnap started to relax—once they put enough space between them and those zombies, it’d be safe, or as safe as it could be, anyway.

The rain beat down even harder as they left the mall behind, the world around them blurring until only the street they were on was visible.

“We’re totally gonna get sick from this,” Sapnap muttered as they trudged forward, stepping over a fallen tree branch. “We should find someplace dry.”

“We thought the mall was gonna be that place,” his companion argued, stopping underneath the awning of an office building. “And look where that got us—right back out in the rain.”

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m just tired.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“Dude, why are you so mad today? Feels like all you’ve done is yell at me,” Sapnap muttered.

“Maybe because I’m a bad mood because we haven’t had any decent food in three days!”

“Whoa, don’t shout! Do you want them to hear us?”

“Look, I just wanna find some food before we try finding someplace to stay, because if we don’t find something to eat, I’m gonna…” His companion shook his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Come on.” He tugged on Sapnap’s arm, but Sapnap pulled him back underneath the awning, squinting at the rain. “What?”

“I saw something moving—someone.”

“Probably just a zombie.”

“I don’t think so. Looks like they’re walking pretty steadily—and they’ve got their head down. How many zombies are bothered by the rain?”

“Not a lot,” his companion conceded, grabbing Sapnap’s arm again and pulling him through the broken door behind them. “Come on, let’s hide in here, hope they didn’t see us.”

The inside of the building was cold. With the narrow windows and thick walls, it was likely the building didn’t get much sunlight for warmth on a normal day, and it certainly wouldn’t be getting any today. Sapnap shivered as he spotted dried bloodstains on the edge of the front desk’s counter, but they looked old, at this point—probably from the start of the pandemic. Most of the furniture was overturned, and a child’s toy lay abandoned near an empty juice bottle. The carpet, while worn, muffled his footsteps, and Sapnap listened carefully instead for groans—the infected were rarely completely quiet.

The office, however, remained silent, and Sapnap felt a brief glimmer of hope that maybe it’d be a safe place to rest for a little. After three days with nothing more than small snacks, he was exhausted. What little energy he’d woken with had been used in running from the zombies in the mall.

His companion led him further into the building, locking them into the manager’s office. It did have a window facing out toward the street, but it was mostly hidden behind overgrown plants at this point, and the door lock still worked. They locked themselves in, hoping that whoever had been out on the street would just pass by. In the meantime, though, Sapnap sank down against a wall, fire axe still clutched in his hands even as he leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Hey, don’t go to sleep yet.” His companion nudged Sapnap’s leg with his foot. “What’d you manage to find in the mall?”

“I dunno.” Sapnap sighed, pulling his backpack closer to him, brushing water off the slick material before unzipping it. “I just grabbed what I could see nearby. Didn’t really check.”

“Let’s hope you didn’t find some stupid shit be we can’t use, like trading cards or something.”

“Hey, I’m not stupid,” Sapnap snapped. “I know not to waste space on stuff like that.”

“Says the guy who tried grabbing the most obvious eyesore green hoodie I’ve ever seen just because it came from a video game.”

“Shut up, man. I left it, didn’t I?”

“But you thought about taking it.”

“Wanting it and actually taking it are two different things!”

“Whatever. Let’s just see what you got.”

Sapnap started pulling some of the things out of his backpack. He’d managed to find at least a few granola bars, a wrench he’d thought might be useful as a backup weapon in case he dropped his axe, and surprisingly, he’d found two cans of soup, along with an unopened bottle of water. Of course, that wasn’t what his traveling companion focused on, instead narrowing in on the piece of clothing crumpled up at the very bottom of the backpack. “What the hell is this?” The other young man pulled it out, shaking it out and holding it up. “You wasted time grabbing a _shirt_?”

“Hey, it’s been getting colder at night, and the shirt I’ve got on is practically shredded from when you decided to lead us through that undergrowth with zombies right behind us! So what if I grabbed a shirt? Not like I spent a bunch of time looking for it—it was literally the first shirt I saw.”

“Whatever, man. Gimme the food. I’m starving.”

“Nuh uh.” Sapnap pulled the backpack closer to him, setting his axe across the opening, where he’d already dropped everything back in. “Not until you show me what you found.”

“Hey, we’ve already been over this. I get first dibs on food. Gimme the soup.”

Sapnap lurched to his feet when the other man threatened to kick him, stepping in front of the backpack. “Fuck off. I’ve already let you have like, half my food, and you haven’t shared any with me.” He hadn’t felt a need to throw around the extra few inches of height he had on his traveling partner, but now he took advantage of it, pushing the other back with the handle of his axe. “And I’m willing to bet those beans didn’t even go missing, did they? You ate them.”

“As if!” The smaller man swung a fist, and Sapnap, with his axe in both hands, was unable to block it, stumbling back and gasping for breath. “And don’t try to push me around! We both know the only reason you’re still here and not dead in a ditch somewhere is because of me!”

“Oh yeah?” Sapnap braced himself against the wall, narrowing his eyes at the other man. “Last time I checked, those zombies would’ve never found me if you hadn’t run right at me, screaming your stupid head off! You’re always the one getting us into trouble! Like today, if you hadn’t broken the glass trying to break into the stupid sex shop, those zombies never woulda heard us!” Sapnap shook his head, though his inhale was stuttered, pain still stinging in his ribs. “Eat your own food already.”

His traveling companion’s fist was halfway to his face when it was caught by a hand, and Sapnap stared at the stranger standing beside him—he hadn’t even heard him enter the room. The stranger’s face was shadowed in the dim room, but his hands were steady, while Sapnap’s companion shook in the stranger’s grasp. “You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you,” the stranger said quietly, catching the young’s man’s other wrist. “I’ve seen you stealing food from him.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Sapnap’s companion shouted, struggling to escape the stranger’s grasp, but the stranger was even taller than Sapnap, and his grip appeared unshakeable. “Let go of me!”

“It makes no sense for you to waste the food anyway,” the stranger continued, as if the man he was holding had never spoken at all. “After all, you won’t need to eat by tomorrow.”

The room went silent except for Sapnap’s ragged breathing and the sound of rain on the leaves of the trees outside the window. “What?” Sapnap finally managed to ask, noticing how wide his companion’s eyes were. “What are you talking about?”

The stranger actually addressed him; Sapnap wasn’t certain he’d get a response after his companion had been ignored. “He’s bitten—must’ve happened while you were in the mall.”

“What… how?”

Sapnap’s companion spoke up. “Come on, Sapnap, he’s lying! We don’t even know this guy! Do something already.” He started squirming in the stranger’s grasp again, kicking at his shins, but the stranger never flinched, his gaze never leaving the captive man’s face.

“Look.” The stranger exhaled loudly. He swept the other man’s legs out from under him, sending him to his knees. A quick knee to the back knocked Sapnap’s companion to the floor, the man shouting obscenities as the stranger kept his knee in his lower back, grabbing ahold of the man’s left arm, ignoring any struggles to escape the way an adult would ignore a baby’s tantrum. “Bitten.” He shoved the man’s sleeve back, and sure enough, there was a bloody imprint of someone’s teeth in the meat of his arm, the flesh around the bite already red and swollen, some of it already turning black as the flesh necrotized. “So like I said, a waste of food.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sapnap whispered. “Why didn’t… you coulda turned at any point and killed me!”

“We don’t know that I’m gonna get sick!” his companion argued. “Look, I could be immune or something, and if I told you, you probably woulda left me behind, and… I just… I’ll be fine. Like the time that flu went around, and people were saying that it was killing people, but I got it and I was fine, and…”

The stranger interrupted the sudden tide of words. “No one’s immune,” he said harshly. “And you’re an asshole for putting your _friend_ at risk. Real friends—family—would be willing to die to keep the people they cared about safe.” The stranger pulled a knife from his belt, and Sapnap’s companion struggled to escape from under him again, but the stranger was implacable.

“Please, no! No, no, no, I don’t wanna die!”

“You’re already dead.” The stranger grabbed Sapnap’s companion by his hair, abruptly yanking him to his feet as he rose as well. “Come on.”

“Where are you taking him?” Sapnap demanded, though his words were a whisper. He knew what that bite meant. He knew there was no coming back from it, and he knew he didn’t have the strength to do what the stranger was going to do.

“Outside. Figured you wouldn’t wanna watch your friend here die.”

Sapnap turned away, shuddering. “He wasn’t my friend.”

“Whatever. I’ll take care of him.”

Sapnap closed his eyes as his companion started screaming, pleading to just be let go. But the stranger didn’t listen, dragging him out the office door and closing it behind him.

His breaths came quicker and louder in the sudden silence that followed.

The door reopened after a moment, and the stranger came back into the room. Sapnap froze against the wall, trapped under the stranger’s gaze. “Relax already,” the stranger said after a moment. “I’m not gonna eat you.” He laughed, pushing back the hood of his dark green jacket, revealing blond hair and green eyes, the rest of his face hidden behind a white mask like the ones everyone had worn at the beginning of the pandemic.

“Who are you?” Sapnap ventured as the other young man pulled his jacket off, revealing a dark green hoodie underneath. “Why… why keep my friend from turning at some point and infecting me? Then you would’ve had twice the supplies to choose from.”

The other man waved him off. “I’ve got supplies. I’m looking for company.” He sank into a crouch next to Sapnap’s companion’s backpack, unzipping it and pulling out a can of beans. “Here, eat.” He threw it at Sapnap, who barely caught it before it hit his chest. “Come on. We’re fairly safe in here, so eat while you can.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

The man froze, his hands halfway to the backpack he’d been going through. The silence was emphasized by the quiet pattering of rain, the only other sound besides Sapnap’s breathing—he didn’t even see the stranger’s chest rise and fall. But then the man shrugged, and the silence was broken. “I don’t either. Got hit on the head a lot.”

“You’re joking.”

“Well, kinda. But I don’t remember much about anything before all… this.” He gestured around them. “Everything before just feels like, I dunno, a dream.” The corners of his eyes crinkled briefly, as if he was grinning; Sapnap couldn’t tell with the mask covering the stranger’s mouth and nose. “I guess you could call me Dream.”

“Okay, _Dream_. Why do you want company? Why me?”

“Why not you?” Dream shrugged as he sorted through the various foods that had been hidden in the other backpack. “You and your friend were the first people I’d seen in weeks.”

“He wasn’t my friend.” Sapnap repeated.

“Then how did you end up with him?”

Sapnap shrugged, slowly sinking down to sit against the wall when he was sure Dream wasn’t going to act against him. “I killed the zombies that had trapped him in a car, and he gave me food, and we decided we could stick together for a while. That was about three months ago.”

“Were you alone before that?”

“Yeah. Well, kinda—I’ve been alone since my family died, about two months after… well, you know.” Dream nodded, and Sapnap worked on opening his can of beans before daring to ask Dream a question. “What about you? Like, what do you remember?”

“I remember… people holding me against my will.” Dream’s hands tightened into fists before he exhaled and continued, his fists loosening until he was able to pick up another can of food, turning it over idly in his hands. “I… Me and another guy managed to escape, but we split up not long after we got out. I’ve been on my own since then. That was probably… four months ago?”

“And you don’t remember anything before that? That has to suck.”

“Not really. Can’t miss what you don’t remember.”

Sapnap forced himself to eat the beans slowly once he got the can open; he’d made the mistake of eating too quickly on an empty stomach before and had been sick. “I guess. Do you remember why you wear a mask?”

Dream snorted. “I don’t like my face.”

“You ugly or something?”

Dream rocked back on his heels, and his laugh was nearly a wheeze. “Nah, I’m just so pretty I’d attract zombies for miles around.”

“Sureee.”

“No, no, it’s true.” His eyes crinkled up again, and he lightly tossed the can of pears he was holding between his hands. “Believe me, if I wasn’t wearing the mask, you’d be starstruck.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just eat your beans,” Dream chuckled. “And try to get dry—now’s not exactly a good time to get sick from the cold.”

Sapnap decided to take Dream’s advice, setting the can of beans aside to pull off his soaked hoodie. His shirt underneath was frayed, torn almost in half. He hesitated a moment before pulling that off as well, grabbing the thick black turtleneck he’d found at the mall. Thankfully, it fit well, and compared to the soaked hoodie, it was already keeping him much warmer.

“Here—I think this was yours.”

Sapnap caught the white shirt when Dream threw it to him, unfolding it to reveal the orange flame on the front. “How’d you…”

“I’ve been following you guys for a while.” Dream shrugged. “Was trying to figure out the best way to talk to you and let you know your partner had been stealing from you.”

“That’s kinda weird, not gonna lie.” Sapnap slid the shirt on over the turtleneck, deciding that keeping the shirt on him would leave space open in his backpack, at least.

“Hey, like I said, you were the first people I’d seen in weeks. But I only saw him steal it about a week ago—he stole it from the tree where you’d left it to dry.”

“He told me the wind must’ve blown it away.”

“He lied.” Dream shrugged. “But it looked like lied about a lot of stuff. He didn’t seem like a nice guy,” Dream observed after a moment, his gaze unfocused. “Maybe you’re better off without him.”

“Maybe.” Sapnap picked back up his can of beans, spinning the beans around with his spoon. “But am I better off with you?”

“Oh, definitely.” Sapnap guessed Dream was smiling again, and a small chuckle confirmed it, though Sapnap shivered as Dream raised his head, his green eyes meeting Sapnap’s. “Trust me, Sapnap, being with me is the safest place in this whole apocalypse.”


	3. Skeppy

The bushes rattling ahead of him made Skeppy freeze, and he bit his lip to keep from making any noise—he knew his screams would attract any nearby zombies. The forest around him remained quiet, though, and Skeppy cautiously crept forward. Maybe it wasn’t a zombie after all. Maybe he’d get lucky and there’d be a deer or rabbit or _anything_ he could hunt for food. He didn’t really know how to prepare animals for cooking, but at this rate, with how little food he’d seen in the past two weeks, Skeppy was starving—anything would be better than nothing.

The clearing he found had no wildlife, but what he found was far better for him. There was a backpack resting in the center of the clearing, and even from the edge, in the dimming light of sunset, Skeppy could see at least one can of food. He hurried forward, too hungry to check for anyone who might be nearby. That was a mistake, of course, because as soon as he stepped forward, he found himself flying into the air by his ankle, shouting as he flailed for something to grab ahold of, but whoever had set the trap had cleared out the area to keep anyone from escaping, and Skeppy was left hanging from a tree by his ankle, unable to get down. Even if he’d been able to reach up to cut the rope holding him, his knife had fallen from the sheath where he’d been ready to grab it, and it lay out of reach on the ground below him.

He’d been there for what he guessed was an hour when someone finally showed up to check the trap. When Skeppy managed to focus, he realized the man wore a boar skull as a mask, and Skeppy shivered; he guessed this wasn’t going to go well. Normal people didn’t wear skulls as masks. What was even stranger was the red cape he wore, with a hood lined with thick white fur. And when the stranger pushed the hood back, it revealed a thin golden circlet around pink hair, braided out of the way. “What, are you going to a renaissance fair? Does the apocalypse still have those?” He slapped a hand over his mouth immediately upon saying the words. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know when to shut up half the time. I…”

The stranger remained silent for a moment before shrugging, plucking at his cape. “I saw it, and the voices told me I needed it.”

“Uh huh. Okay, um, look, Mr. Prince Guy, could you please help me down? I, uh, seem to have gotten stuck here, and I really don’t feel good after hanging upside down for an hour, and there could be zombies anywhere…”

“There’s no zombies nearby.”

“What?” Skeppy hastily backtracked when he saw the sword belted at the stranger’s waist. “Um, I mean, not that I’m questioning your judgement or anything, but um, how would… how would you know that?”

“I cleared out all the zombies in the area before I lured you in.” The stranger shrugged. “Didn’t want you getting eaten for just a prank.”

“A… a prank?”

“Yup.” The stranger grinned, and Skeppy’s eyes went wide when he spotted sharp canine teeth—those weren’t part of a costume, he was certain. “I knew you’d fall for the bait, and now here you are, caught like a fly in a web.”

“Um… please tell me that doesn’t make you the spider.”

“Oh, it does,” the stranger assured him. “But the spider’s not hungry today.”

“Oh! Well, uh, that’s good, I guess. Um… does that mean I get to go?”

“Eh, sure.” The stranger disappeared into the bushes nearby, where the rope was tied down. A moment later, Skeppy was lowered to the ground, slowly enough that he was able to put his hands out to brace himself. The blood rushed back to his legs and he groaned, lying on his side in the leaf litter in the clearing.

“Oh, I don’t feel good,” he complained, shrieking when he felt a hand on his shoulders. He rolled away from the stranger, who only stared at him. “How are you so _stealthy_? Like I never hear you move.” He crushed some leaves under his palm. “You should be like, making some sorta noise walking around here!”

“Why?”

“I dunno, because that’s just how things work! People make noise!”

“I don’t.”

“Okay, Mr. King of the Apocalypse, maybe you don’t, but at least _try_ to make some sorta noise? Give a poor guy some warning, ya know?”

“Fine.” The stranger specifically made some leaves crunch as he rocked back on his heels. “Better?”

“Not really, but anyway.” Skeppy managed to make it to a crouch, though his world still swayed around him. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Please don’t. These boots are new.”

“How… how is that your priority right now? Out of everything that’s gone weird in this world, and you’re worried about me being sick on your new boots?”

“Well, yeah. They’re genuine leather. I don’t wanna hafta clean ‘em just yet. That’d be _work_.”

Skeppy fought against another snappy response as the stranger stood up, towering over Skeppy. “Um, well, if that’s all, it was a good prank, I guess. Haha, caught me and left me upside down for an hour. Um, I’ll just get going, then, since I need to find some food and all…”

“Take what’s there.” The stranger gestured toward the bag of supplies still sitting tauntingly in the center of the clearing. “No more pranks for this one. That’s all yours.”

“What… what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t you need some of those supplies?”

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Skeppy.”

The stranger placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, staring down at him. “Well, Skeppy, tell me: does it _look_ like I need those supplies?”

“No?” Skeppy prayed that was the right answer.

“Then why aren’t you taking them?”

“Well, to be completely honest, I really just don’t want you to kill me, and I’m worried if I take your stuff, you’ll kill me.”

“I won’t kill you, at least not yet.” The stranger’s smirk made Skeppy feel cold from head to toe. “Maybe later. But for now, the stuff is yours. I don’t need it.”

Skeppy carefully crawled to the backpack, pulling out one of the cans to see what was beneath it. And surprisingly, the whole backpack was full, packed tightly with canned food, bottled water, medical supplies, and a few useful tools and weapons. “Whoa. Thanks, guy. I…” He turned back to speak to the stranger, but the clearing was empty, the only sound the evening wind rustling the leaves of the trees. “Where…? Need I remind you, _noise_?” Skeppy complained, and he heard a hoarse laugh from somewhere in the woods nearby, and a twig snapping followed shortly after, but then the forest was silent again; Skeppy was alone almost as quickly as he’d been joined by the stranger.

Skeppy didn’t question it further, instead opening up a can of soup to eat. If he died from poisoning—he thought the stranger might find that funny—at least it was better than slowly starving to death.

But even though he remained in the clearing for the night, he remained alive, only growing sleepy. He found himself a place to sleep up in the branches of the very tree the trap had been hung over, the large boughs easily supporting him. A blanket that had been wrapped up tightly in the backpack kept him warmer than he’d been in days, and Skeppy decided that the payment of being hung upside down by his ankle for an hour as a prank was well worth it.

Morning dawned cold, damp, and gray, and Skeppy shook the water off the blanket, groaning. “Why can’t sleeping in trees feel better?” But he knew it was safer than the ground, even if the stranger had cleared the area of zombies.

As it was, it seemed that deed hadn’t lasted the night—once he was on the ground, Skeppy could hear groaning not far off—it seemed that zombies had wandered in overnight. It was this that made him hurry through eating a can of peaches, and once he’d managed to shove everything back into the backpack, he took off—he wanted to be somewhere where he could see the zombies before they killed him.

He made it to the edge of the woods not long after—the woods around here were broken up by the large suburbs that had been built. All of them were abandoned, one of the first places to be raided with how concentrated supplies had been, back in the beginning. But they were often infested with zombies as well, and Skeppy was relieved to find himself on the edge of an overgrown soccer field, rather than coming down amid the houses. From here, he might be able to find a road that would lead out of town, and he could get out into the wilderness where it’d be easier to escape the zombies. Now that he had some supplies, he didn’t have to worry about starving if he left this town.

A gas station on his way out caught his attention, however. The glass walls at the front of the store were still intact, and while there were many cars parked outside, most of them looked to be undamaged. Maybe there were still some supplies available. If he was really lucky, there might still be some gas in the tank and one of the cars nearby might work. “It can’t be too hard to hotwire a car,” Skeppy muttered to himself. He crept toward the door, checking both the space ahead of him for zombies and the ground beneath his shoes for any traps that might catch him unaware again—he doubted a second trap would go as well for him as the first one had.

He reached a car close to the edge of the road—the only one he could probably get out without far too much work—and tested the driver’s door, and the door opened with a low creak. “Shush,” he muttered to the door, peering into the car. The backseat was empty, with only a few blankets resting across the seat. There were dried bloodstains in the upholstery, and he guessed the person who’d been in the backseat had been sick when the people had stopped here for gas. But at this point, there wasn’t much that didn’t carry some mark of sickness or death, and when he determined that there were no zombies in the car, Skeppy decided that the car was as good as any of them—it certainly was better than trying to walk everywhere. It’d also give him some place to sleep out of the cold. He’d need to figure out how to hotwire it, and that was hoping the battery wasn’t dead. If the battery was dead, he’d need to either find a way to jump it, pick a different car, or decide to move on.

His luck was with him that the interior of the car appeared undamaged—no one had presumably tried to start this car in the past—and he recalled enough from what he’d heard from some questionable friends to break into where the wires were and cut the right ones with his knife without killing himself. But the car had just sputtered into life when the door to the store opened, and Skeppy ducked behind the backseat door when he spotted guns in the hands of the people who’d just emerged from the small store. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Out of everything he’d anticipated coming out of the convenience store, well-armed survivors had certainly not been on his radar. And he doubted these people would be as friendly as the stranger in the woods had been.

“You really should be more careful.”

Skeppy screamed, but the sound was quickly muffled by a hand over his mouth, and he froze under the cold touch of the man next to him, and the man pulled his hand back once he was certain Skeppy would remain quiet, adjusting his circlet, which had fallen askew. “How are you so _sneaky_?” Skeppy whispered loudly.

“I’d think you’d be grateful I showed up.”

Skeppy eyed the sword still belted to the stranger’s waist. “I don’t think a _sword_ is gonna do much good against three guys with _guns_.”

The man patted Skeppy’s shoulder, and his smirk bared the sharp teeth that could only be called fangs. “Technoblade never dies,” he promised grandiosely, and he was gone in a flash of his red cape.

Skeppy peeked through the car windows, eyes widening when he saw the stranger—Technoblade, if what he called himself was true—lunge out from behind one of the many parked cars, crashing into one of the armed men that had emerged from the store, knocking him to the ground. He hadn’t even unsheathed his sword, though, and Skeppy fully expected to watch the man die, until a spray of red misted the air as Technoblade raised his head, blood dripping from his mouth. The man under him clutched at his throat, a raspy scream escaping him and finally drawing the attention of his companions. They turned their guns on Technoblade, and Skeppy clapped his hands over his ears as the loud report of the guns filled the air, and he quickly loaded his backpack into the car, deciding that he might as well accept Technoblade’s sacrifice and use it to escape. But even as he scrambled into the driver’s seat, he glanced over to see that Technoblade was nowhere to be seen, and neither was one of the remaining two survivors. The last man spun around, rifle clutched tightly in his hands. But even as he spotted Skeppy and turned his rifle toward him, the man tumbled forward. His screams were audible to Skeppy even with his ears ringing, and Skeppy gaped as he watched the man get dragged behind one of the many cars in the lot.

Skeppy’s screams were just as loud when that man was dropped on the hood of the car, his wide eyes meeting Skeppy’s. “Help me!” the man screeched, his hands scrabbling at the glass of the windshield. “Help!” His words morphed to a shriek as he was once again dragged away by his ankle, and Skeppy’s stomach heaved as he watched Technoblade lift the man up, the man choking on blood as Technoblade’s sword pierced his chest. The man’s struggles died out soon after, and Technoblade let the man fall to the ground, head tilted sideways as he stared at the blood running down the sword.

His gaze turned to Skeppy, though, and Skeppy’s breaths came faster, and his hands felt glued to the steering wheel with how tightly he was gripping it, unable to move under Technoblade’s stare. “Thanks for the dinner,” the man laughed, and he turned away from Skeppy. “You really should be more careful.”

Skeppy managed to wrest his hand from the steering wheel to slam the car door shut, and he barely managed to control his shaking enough to slam the car into reverse. The car bumped off the curb and onto the litter-covered street, and the tires screeched as Skeppy put the car in drive and hit the gas. He glanced back only once to see Technoblade watching him drive away, his shoulders shaking in what Skeppy guessed was laughter.

The on ramp onto the highway, thankfully, was free of any cars. Skeppy wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if he’d gotten stuck so close to a murderous madman who moved like the wind. He recalled some of Technoblade’s first words to him, about how the spider—the man himself—hadn’t been hungry the evening before. He’d gotten incredibly lucky that the strange man had felt compelled to _prank_ him, rather than kill him, because with the way Skeppy had been strung up by his ankle, it would’ve been incredibly easy to do.

“The more miles between him and me, the better,” Skeppy muttered, and he pressed harder on the accelerator, watching the odometer needle climb higher. The needle for the gas gauge, however, ticked ever so slightly down, and while that worried Skeppy, he was relieved to see that this car at least had a half-tank of gas. It’d be enough to take him many miles before he had to stop, and he pushed the car to go faster. “At least I can’t be pulled over for speeding,” he joked halfheartedly, and he groaned. “I really need to stop talking to myself.”

He hesitantly reached for the power button on the radio, not sure what to expect. Surprisingly, the stereo blared into life, blasting some random pop song, and Skeppy realized a CD was loaded into the stereo. Humming softly to the tune of the song, Skeppy decided to enjoy the comforts he’d been denied for months now, and he turned on the heater, letting the warm air slow his shaking. It wouldn’t last forever, but he’d take what he could get. Technoblade might be a madman, but thanks to him, Skeppy had a decent amount of supplies, and he was still alive to drive the car away.

The storm that had slowly been blowing in from the west finally broke as he drove in that very direction, and Skeppy reluctantly dropped his speed. Despite his displeasure about having to drive in a storm, the droplets falling on the windshield and the rhythmic swiping of the windshield wipers helped him slowly relax, letting him very briefly forget about the hell he now lived in.


	4. Wilbur

“Tommy! Tommy, get back inside!”

Tommy screeched in protest as Wilbur grabbed the back of shirt, dragging him back into the church they were currently sheltering in. Phil shut the door in front of Tommy, and Tommy stopped struggling, simply crossing his arms over his chest. Wilbur rolled his eyes, letting go of Tommy.

“You’re gonna get us killed, Tommy,” Wilbur told him, pulling his beanie down tighter against the chill that permeated the building. “This isn’t the city anymore.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tommy said, his eyes widening in protest. “I’m not stupid, Wilbur! I just wanted to…”

“Don’t argue, Tommy,” Phil sighed. “We’re all tired, and it’s only going to attract zombies.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Tommy.”

Tommy exhaled loudly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just go sit in the corner and be all quiet and shit.” He left the door behind, but rather than going to a corner as he’d promised, he flopped down on a pew next to Tubbo, and the two immediately started whispering loudly.

Wilbur decided not to push their luck further; while they were still being louder than he would’ve liked, getting Tommy down to a whisper was nothing short of a miracle. Then again, he was very rarely reprimanded by both Wilbur and Phil. Wilbur sighed, making sure the door was barricaded properly before retreating back down the main aisle to sit down on the steps in front of the pulpit, where they’d laid out their sleeping bags. Phil came with him, and he remained quiet as Wilbur opened the guitar case he’d found in one of the back rooms of the church when they’d checked the building to make sure it was free of zombies or any other threats. Wilbur chuckled softly as he recalled the large spiders that had led Tommy declaring the building uninhabitable, and Phil raised his eyebrows, but made no protest when Wilbur shook his head. Wilbur lifted the guitar from the case with shaky hands, running his hands over the polished wood. It’d been at least a few months since he’d held a guitar in his hands, and his heart ached at the thought of his own, left behind in his makeshift home in the sanctuary city that had sprung up in the remains of Chicago.

His fingers hesitated on the strings, and Phil finally spoke up. “Wilbur?”

Wilbur shook his head, trying to shake off the clinging sense of despair thinking about the state of the world always left him in. “Sorry, Phil. I was just thinking about Chicago, is all.”

“Ah.” Phil hesitated. “We’ll find someplace else,” he promised after a moment, glancing at Tommy and Tubbo, who were now playing with Tubbo’s well-worn deck of cards, Tommy laughing delightedly as he bested Tubbo at some play or other. “For those boys, we’ll _make_ a place, if we have to.”

Wilbur nodded. “I just wish we could’ve made it to Techno’s city before everything fell apart—he’d know more about everything than we would. America is still so strange.”

“Tell me about it,” Phil snorted. “But Techno hardly went outside,” he laughed. “Was always playing video games if he could.”

“As if you were any better,” Wilbur teased, tuning the guitar when the notes he carefully strummed didn’t sound right. “Last I remember, I had to _beg_ you to come on tour with me because you didn’t want to leave your computer behind.” Wilbur paused when Phil’s gaze became distant, and Wilbur winced, thinking of Phil’s wife, who’d remained behind in the UK. “Sorry, Phil. I didn’t mean to…”

Phil shook his head. “There’s no use worrying over it. There’s no way to make it back there, now.” He glanced at the guitar. “Why don’t you go ahead and play something on that? Don’t want you forgetting how to play.”

“As if I could.” Even though this guitar was not his own, Wilbur’s fingers found their place instinctively, slowly building up to a gentle tune. It was more melancholy a song than he’d originally intended, but his playing became more confident, and he hummed along with the tune, mind lost in the past where he’d last heard the song, back before the world had been left in shambles.

He’d been warned not to go on tour, of course, with the threat of both the UK and the US possibly closing their borders due to the virus currently spreading. But he’d been promised that holding concerts would be safe—the virus wasn’t airborne—and he’d decided that he couldn’t back out, and with the virus seemingly not a threat, he’d boarded a plane, along with Phil, Tommy, and Tubbo, all three accompanying him on tour. All four of them had been looking forward to meeting with Technoblade, but Tommy and Tubbo had both relished the chance to have a break from school. He recalled their excitement as they’d visited some of the more popular tourist traps in New York, and Wilbur had enjoyed performing nearly every other night as they traveled further west.

They’d been in Chicago when the world had been turned upside down. Even as they’d traveled, word had been coming in of hospitals slowly filling with patients, of the sickly being gunned down in the very buildings meant to help heal them when they attacked staff. With the exponential spread of the viruses, emergency services had quickly been overcome, the workers having been some of the first to be infected by the sick individuals they were called to control. From there, things had spiraled further out of control, with people fighting over goods from a quickly broken supply chain, and Wilbur’s tour had quickly been canceled as the city locked down. Chicago’s government, without direction from the state or federal government, had taken things into their own hands, recruiting those willing to restore order from the turmoil on the streets, slowly building up a safe zone that thankfully included the hotel Wilbur and the others had been staying at.

Chicago’s new laws were stricter than before, but while the option to leave was always open, Wilbur saw no reason to. News stations still broadcast from cities that had yet to tumble into chaos, and city after city shut down their airports and seaports, attempting far too late to contain what could not be contained. There was no reason to leave behind restrictive safety for the possibility of a free death. And besides, there was Tubbo and Tommy to look after—he’d promised their parents he’d keep them safe, and even though he wasn’t _that_ much older than them, he fully intended to keep that promise. Phil had agreed with him, and they’d remained in Chicago, helping those that remained to keep civilization alive behind the walls that had been erected to isolate the city from the rest of the world.

“Wilbur.” Phil’s soft utterance of his name brought him back from Chicago, back from the fires and fights and _death_ that they’d left behind after the virus had infiltrated the city, bringing him back to this small church in this small town somewhere in Kansas. “Maybe you should get some sleep.” He squeezed Wilbur’s shoulder gently, and Wilbur saw in that knowing gaze that Phil knew exactly what he’d been reliving. “We’ll need to get going early tomorrow morning, so best to get some rest while you can.”

Wilbur shook his head, exhaling softly and resting the guitar on his knees. “I can hardly sleep anymore.”

Phil nodded in understanding. “Neither can I, but we need to at least try, for them.” He nodded toward Tommy and Tubbo, who were still deeply engrossed in their card game, having been unbothered by Wilbur’s playing starting and stopping abruptly. “We can’t exactly look after them if we’re both asleep on our feet later, now can we?”

“Okay, dad,” Wilbur said with a halfhearted laugh. “I’ll try to get some sleep, I guess.”

“At least close your eyes for a while,” Phil urged, standing up. “I’m going to double check that all the doors are locked. I’ll wake you for watch later.”

Wilbur put the guitar back in the case, dropping down to lie on top of his sleeping bag. While it was cooler than he would’ve liked, he couldn’t bring himself to get under blankets; his overworked mind told him that it would just be another obstacle to deal with if he woke to an emergency. He closed his eyes, resting an arm over them to block out any light. Tommy and Tubbo surprisingly lowered their voices after he heard Phil speak quietly with them, and the younger boys’ low whispers lulled Wilbur into a light sleep.

He was awakened briefly by Tommy and Tubbo settling in for bed an indeterminate number of hours later. The boarded windows no longer had light drifting in between the boards, so Wilbur guessed it was nighttime, at least, and guessing that Phil didn’t need him on watch yet, Wilbur slipped back into sleep.

When he next woke, it was to Phil’s hand on his shoulder. Wilbur sat up, blinking in the faint light of the lantern Phil had in his other hand. It took a moment for Wilbur to shake off his disorientation—he’d been dreaming of going to a restaurant with some of his friends back in the UK—before guessing it was his turn for watch. But rather than go to bed, Phil joined him, following him over to the church vestibule, where they could speak quietly without disturbing Tommy or Tubbo.

“Haven’t heard anything so far,” Phil told him. “But it looks like there’s a storm coming in.” He hesitated. “And we need to find some food. I was thinking about heading out in the morning to look for anything that might be left out there.”

Wilbur frowned. “We’ll go with you, then. We shouldn’t separate.”

“We have the meeting point if anything goes wrong,” Phil pointed out.

“I am not letting you go off on your own, Phil,” Wilbur insisted. “It’s the oldest trope in existence—everyone splits up and then everyone dies.”

“This isn’t a movie, Wilbur,” Phil laughed, but his smile vanished quickly. “But we need to do something, or we’re going to have to start rationing the food and skipping meals, and I’d really rather not do that.”

Wilbur’s hand tightened on the lantern handle. They both knew the pain of skipping meals—they’d already done that several times to keep Tommy and Tubbo fed. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. Hell, _I_ don’t like it. But we _need_ food, and that doesn’t even begin to cover medical supplies.”

“We’re not running low on those, are we?”

“Can’t run low on what you never had to begin with.”

Wilbur winced. “Okay, okay. The point’s taken.” He grasped Phil’s wrist when Phil turned away, and the older man turned back to face him. “Promise me you’ll play it safe.”

“Of course I will. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” Wilbur teased, a rare smile pulling at his cheeks; it felt odd after so long with a frown etched on his face. “Are you implying that you might be?”

“Never.” Phil pulled his wrist from Wilbur’s grasp. “Good night, Wilbur. Wake me if you hear anything.”

Wilbur nodded, his smile fading away as Phil moved away between the pews, heading for his sleeping bag next to Wilbur’s. Pulling his brown coat tighter around him and lifting the lantern, Wilbur shivered, moving away to check that the boards covering the windows were secure. Peeking through the boards, dim moonlight shined through gaps in the clouds, illuminating overgrown trees swaying in the wind, and this close to the window, Wilbur could hear the leave hissing in the wind, sounding like choruses of snakes. The weather certainly looked like it promised a storm, and Wilbur half-hoped it was a false promise. Rain was good for fresh water, but little else. It destroyed their ability to see much of their surroundings, and made listening for zombies or other zombies entirely pointless. Of course, it meant little else could hear them as well, but what he hated more than anything was how limited their mobility was in the rain. He couldn’t run if he needed to, and that made him nervous.

“Wilbur?”

Wilbur spun around, the light from the lantern creating grotesque shadows on the walls of the vestibule, as Wilbur tried to catch his breath. “Tommy? What are you doing up?”

Tommy rubbed his eyes, blinking in the light of the lantern. “Phil going to sleep woke me.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d find you, maybe help you with watch for a little.”

“I’ll be fine.” Wilbur waved him off, but Tommy crossed his arms across his chest again.

“I’m not stupid, Wilbur, and I’m not a child anymore, either. You don’t have to baby me _or_ Tubbo.” His voice softened. “Talk to me.”

Wilbur debated lying and telling Tommy that nothing was wrong, but he recognized the fire in Tommy’s blue eyes; it was the same determination that had bullied Wilbur into allowing Tommy and Tubbo to go on tour with him in the first place. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, Tommy.” That earned him a shrug from the tall young man, and Wilbur sighed. “I’m just unnerved by the storm. I don’t want to get caught out there by zombies.”

“I’ll kill ‘em for you,” Tommy promised, and in that moment, Wilbur knew Tommy was entirely serious. “They won’t get anywhere near you.”

“Thank you,” Wilbur breathed. “But really, I should be…”

Tommy shook his head. “Be as bossy as you want about everything else,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll complain about it later, but that’s fine. But I won’t let the zombies get you, Wilbur. Besides, I already told Tubbo I’d keep him safe too, and I mean, I could definitely beat any zombie. They wouldn’t stand a chance.” And just like that, his seriousness faded, a broad grin brightening his face. “I’m the best, after all.”

“Uh huh. Go back to bed,” Wilbur chuckled, another rare smile making itself known. “I’ll let you know if there’s any zombies that need tackling.”

“You’d better,” Tommy threatened, and he retreated into the church proper, and now listening for it, Wilbur heard the sleeping bag zipper as Tommy climbed back into his sleeping bag.

The rest of the night—and the rest of Wilbur’s watch—passed uneventfully. Wilbur managed to keep himself distracted enough to not completely have a breakdown, and he willingly retired to his sleeping bag when Phil woke and headed out to find supplies, setting Tommy and Tubbo to watch the church.

He was properly in a deep sleep when Tubbo screamed.

Lurching up, Wilbur grabbed the fire axe he carried as a weapon, trying to figure out what had Tubbo screaming. Whipping his head around to check the church, he realized that one of the boarded windows was no longer boarded; rain dumped down through the broken wood to fall among the shards of broken glass, soaking the carpet beneath the window. What was worse was the zombie that had tumbled through the window along with the broken lumber and glass. Tubbo had scrambled away from the zombie, and Tommy had no hesitation about stomping on the zombie’s back, pinning it to the floor before smashing his other foot down on the zombie’s skull multiple times, cursing vividly when he lost his balance as the zombie’s skull cracked under his foot.

Wilbur leapt into action. Tommy had that zombie under control, but where there was one zombie, there were always others. He started packing up their belongings with a speed borne of long practice, and he had nearly everything put away when he realized Phil hadn’t returned yet. His hands hesitated on his backpack, and it was Tubbo who grabbed the straps of the backpack, helping guide it onto Wilbur’s back. That shook Wilbur out of it; he needed to get Tommy and Tubbo to safety. He slid his backpack on the rest of the way, and found Tommy and Tubbo ready to go. Tommy glanced briefly at Phil’s things before his jaw tightened.

“What are we doing, Wilbur?”

“We’re going to head for the meeting point that we agreed on—the house up on top of that hill nearby.”

“Okay.” Tommy gestured for Wilbur to take the lead, making Tubbo go right after Wilbur. Tubbo started to say something, but Wilbur started moving, and Tubbo’s protests about being sheltered died on his lips. Wilbur slid the chair they’d used to hold the doors shut free of the push bars, carefully pushing one door open to peek outside. The immediate path in front of the doors was clear, but Wilbur knew it wouldn’t remain that way for long—already the zombies were coming up on both sides of the church. It wouldn’t be long before the whole building was surrounded—the screams and boards breaking had keyed the zombies in to focus on the building.

“Let’s go!” he hissed, and he took off, Tubbo and Tommy close behind.

The ground was slippery underfoot, and the downpour made it difficult to see where he was stepping. Zombies approached from both their left and right, but thankfully the church sat at an intersection, leaving the way forward open. He sprinted for that open space, loose gravel sliding under his shoes. It was Tommy who lost his balance first though, shouting as he tumbled forward. Glancing back, Wilbur found Tommy scrambling back to his feet almost immediately, motioning for them to keep moving.

After that, the streets were mainly empty—Wilbur had to wonder where the crowd of zombies had come from in the first place. He didn’t voice any thoughts aloud, though, the rain and their feet hitting the road the only sounds.

The house on the hill was abandoned, much as Wilbur and Phil had guessed it’d be. Wilbur assigned Tommy to check that the bottom floor was clear though, and Tubbo was put in charge of finding something to barricade the doors with, while Wilbur checked the second floor for any threats. But other than a raccoon that screeched and crawled out an open window upon seeing Wilbur, the house was silent. Going back downstairs, Wilbur found Tubbo and Tommy sitting at the dining table. Tubbo was carefully wiping Tommy’s arms clean with a damp towel, the towel coming away red. “Tommy? What happened?”

“Scraped my arms up pretty bad when I fell earlier,” Tommy grimaced, flinching when Tubbo continued cleaning the injury. “Careful!”

“We need something to cover these up with, Wilbur,” Tubbo told him. “Or knowing Tommy, he’ll get into something and they’ll end up infected or badly scarred if he picks at them.”

“Scars would make me look badass though,” Tommy complained. “What’s wrong with a few scars?”

Tubbo rolled his eyes. “Tommy. We don’t have antibiotics—you’ll get really sick if this gets infected.”

Tommy swallowed, holding his arms out. “Bandage away.”

“Wilbur, where are the bandages?”

Wilbur lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes. “We don’t have any. Phil was hoping to find some when he went out earlier.”

“Oh.” Tubbo hesitated, his voice wavering. “Well, that’s all right. We should be able to find some cloth around here to make into bandages.”

“Good thinking, Tubbo,” Tommy told him with a smile, and Wilbur nodded.

“You two stay here. I’ll go find something.”

He found some white shirts they could tear up into bandages and left Tubbo to it, figuring that it wouldn’t hurt the younger man to have something to occupy him. Tommy meanwhile had plenty of complaints to keep himself busy, and so Wilbur left them alone, slowly finding a path that took him around the house and allowed him to keep an eye on every route that led up to the house—he checked the living room first, cycling back into the hall and then through the back two bedrooms, and lastly through kitchen, stopping briefly to check that the door out to the attached garage was still locked and the garage free of any zombies.

Tubbo and Tommy, once they were done bandaging Tommy’s arms—leaving Tommy looking like a kid trying his hand at boxing—said nothing about his rounds, instead retreating to one of the clean upstairs bedrooms, where he heard them whispering to each other. Wilbur left them to it, knowing that he couldn’t risk sleeping again, despite fatigue pulling at his limbs as the hours dragged on. He had to keep them safe.


	5. Sapnap and Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit later than I'd wanted because of midterm season (send help please, oml), but here's the next chapter! Hope y'all enjoy; comments are always welcome. :)

“I don’t feel so good.” Sapnap rubbed at his arms as Dream glanced back, his eyes glinting in the evening light.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m cold, and I feel like I’m gonna be sick.” Even with his long-sleeved shirt, the cold felt like it was trying to eat through to his bones, and his throat felt like he hadn’t drunk any water all day—though he’d had some not more than ten minutes before. Dream drifted back toward him on silent feet, lifting a hand to press it to Sapnap’s forehead. Sapnap flinched back; it wasn’t often Dream and he came in physical contact with each other, and Dream’s hand was _cold_.

“Hold still.” Sapnap’s jaw tightened at Dream’s quiet reprimand, but he remained still as Dream tested his forehead again, nodding. “You’re pretty warm—you might have a fever.”

“That’s not good.”

“It’s really not,” Dream agreed, withdrawing his hand, much to Sapnap’s relief. “You… you haven’t gotten bit, have you?”

Sapnap snorted, though he winced as it made his throat feel sorer. “I think you’d know, since we haven’t really split up since you found me.”

“All the food and water we’ve had has been safe,” Dream said after a moment’s thought. “So it shouldn’t be food poisoning, I guess.”

“Mighta been that last group of people we traded with,” Sapnap ventured, slowly sinking down to sit on the curb, resting his head in his hands—his head felt a bit achy as well, but it had gone mainly unnoticed until now; keeping up with Dream was a lot of work. “One of them coulda been sick with something.”

“None of them looked or sounded sick.”

“Some things don’t show symptoms right away.” Sapnap raised his head. “Could be a cold or the flu.”

“Those… those aren’t fatal, are they?” Dream’s eyebrows pinched together as he stared down at Sapnap.

Sapnap snorted, though he rubbed at his throat. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

“I’ve already told you I don’t,” Dream snapped.

“Hey, take it easy.” Sapnap waved him off, unsettled by Dream’s cold tone; he’d so far reserved it for the two groups they’d encountered since meeting. “Cold’s not fatal, but the flu… God, I hope it’s not the flu. I had the flu once when I was a kid, and it was awful. I was in bed for a week, dude.” Thoughts of previous times searching the internet for illnesses came back to him, and he groaned. “Most colds don’t have fevers. And that means we’re both probably gonna be sick. This is gonna suck.” Finding supplies and staying safe from zombies and other survivors was already difficult enough.

“I won’t get sick.” Dream said it with such calm confidence that Sapnap didn’t question him on it, only praying that the other man was right. “Can you walk any further? We need to find you someplace safe to stay while you get better.”

“I mean, I guess. I just really wanna sleep for ten days though.” He rubbed at his throat again. “God, my throat is sore.”

Dream glanced around, and Sapnap rested his head on his knees, staring at the curb and the weeds growing against it only momentarily before closing his eyes. Thinking back to the last group of survivors they’d met, he wondered who it was that had been sick, and he wished he’d followed Dream’s advice of avoiding the group instead of insisting on meeting with them. If they’d waited for the group to pass by, he might not have gotten sick. It made him angry that he’d made it through so much to just feel so leveled by what had been a statistically normal—if unpleasant—illness prior to the zombie virus making itself known. His thoughts, however, were disturbed as Dream swept him up in his arms, and Sapnap yelped as he nearly rolled out of Dream’s grasp. “Hey! Put me down!”

“There are people coming with guns,” Dream hissed, breaking into a jog. This forced Sapnap to wrap his arms around Dream’s neck to hold on, Dream’s skin radiating cold even from underneath his green jacket, making Sapnap shiver. “And you’ve been slowing down all evening. I don’t wanna get caught out in the open.”

Sapnap didn’t question how Dream knew about any people nearby—his hearing was much better than Sapnap’s, and even though they hadn’t been traveling together long, Dream’s instincts had gotten them out of several situations before things got ugly. Despite that, he wasn’t sure running was their only option. “They could have medicine though.”

“I’ll risk finding out once you’re somewhere safe.”

Sapnap didn’t protest after that, resting his head against Dream’s shoulder as Dream sought shelter for them. Dream’s gait was thankfully smooth, and Sapnap was lulled into a near-doze as Dream ran. When Dream did come to a stop, Sapnap eyes blinked open, trying to figure out what he was looking at. The sun, having already set, was providing less and less light, and it took Sapnap a moment to realize that Dream had stopped outside a generic suburb house.

“Wait here,” Dream ordered, lowering Sapnap to sit on a bench overlooking the overgrown front yard. “I’m going to make sure the house is clear.”

Sapnap didn’t protest, simply wrapping his arms around his knees as Dream disappeared inside. The metal of the bench was uncomfortable, but it somehow felt no colder than Dream’s arms had. Staring out at the street beyond the weeds that stood nearly knee-high where a lawn had once grown, Sapnap wondered briefly what had happened to the occupants of all the nearby houses. Some people, he knew, had sought out sanctuary cities, while others had headed for more rural areas, wanting to escape the huge hordes that had quickly swamped some cities and neighborhoods. His family had already lived out in the countryside, so they hadn’t felt the impact of the pandemic immediately. By the time they’d realized the gravity of the situation, it’d been too late. The thought made him grimace, and he wondered if Dream had been through something similar—most survivors recounted a story of how they hadn’t expected things to get so bad so fast. He felt bad for Dream that he couldn’t remember much prior to the pandemic, but jealous at the same time. How nice would it be to not feel that loss?

“It’s clear.” Dream’s words made Sapnap flinch; he never heard Dream move, and despite having traveled together for a month, it still startled him. “You want me to carry you in, or you wanna walk?”

“I’ll walk.” Sapnap took Dream’s hand when Dream offered it, though, using it to make it to his feet. And he didn’t protest Dream’s hand moving to rest just behind his shoulder, not holding him but simply guiding him toward the front door of the house, now fading into shadow as the night grew darker. “How can you see so good?”

“I don’t know.”

And much like reminders of Dream’s past, reminders of how different things seemed to be for him compared to Sapnap and other survivors seemed to make Dream uneasy, and Sapnap attempted to make a joke to lighten things. “Maybe you’re Superman.” He paused. “Please tell me you can’t just, like, x-ray vision through my clothes.”

Dream laughed. “No x-ray vision here,” he promised, shutting the front door once they were safely inside, and he turned on a flashlight for Sapnap’s benefit. “Come on, the bedroom back this way looked okay.” Sapnap followed him through the house, flinching when the light from Dream’s flashlight bounced off a mirror in the bathroom at the end of the hall. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Sapnap’s voice cracked at the end of his words though, and he grimaced. “I’m fine,” he repeated at a more normal volume. “Just jumpy, I guess.”

“That’s probably normal,” Dream observed, guiding Sapnap into the bedroom he’d told him about. The dresser drawers were open, and clothing hung out, abandoned by their owners, and boxes had been upended and their contents spilled across their floor, likely by survivors searching for supplies. But the bed was mostly unbothered, though the blankets were still pushed back like someone had gotten out of bed and simply never come back. He cautiously toed off his shoes, sitting down on the bed. It felt like he was sitting on a cloud—it felt like he was going to sink right through it, a sharp contrast compared to the hard ground he’d been sleeping on with a sleeping bag for some time now. “Lie down,” Dream ordered, and Sapnap debated arguing before deciding that his throat hurt too much for that. Dream raised an eyebrow when Sapnap did as he asked, and he shook his head. “You really must be sick.”

“Shut up!”

Dream’s eyes crinkled up in a smile. “Okay, so you’re not _that_ sick yet.”

Sapnap rolled his eyes. “Oh my gosh, stop.”

“Nah.” Dream set his backpack down next to the bed, rolling his shoulders, though Sapnap knew that there was little chance the other man was sore from carrying the weight of his pack. “Just relax for once. I’m gonna go see if I can find any medicine.”

Sapnap eyed the messy piles of belongings on the floor, and he mentally made a note of where he spotted some Legos buried in the carpet, but nothing useful seemed present. “I don’t think you’re gonna find anything.”

“No harm in checking. Stay here,” Dream ordered once more before disappearing from the room, leaving the flashlight with Sapnap. It brought up the questions Sapnap had asked earlier—how was Dream able to see so much in the complete darkness that had settled around them now that the sun had set?

His eyes were just starting to slide shut when the flashlight slipped from his fingers, but it was caught before it hit the floor. Seeing a silhouette leaning over him, Sapnap shrieked, though his shouts died out when the person shined the flashlight up at his face, revealing Dream’s white mask and green eyes, one eyebrow once again raised. “Dream!”

“Sapnap!” Dream taunted, laughing when Sapnap frowned at him. “Who did you expect it to be?”

“I dunno!” Sapnap snapped defensively. “You coulda been a zombie or something!”

“Oh, come on.” Dream snorted. “As if a zombie could move as quietly as I can.”

“Well, it coulda been some sorta crazy serial killer then.”

“You realize I would’ve heard them long before they got to you, right?”

Sapnap crossed his arms across his chest. “Well, you surprised me, okay! One second I’m alone, and you’re just _there_.”

“You’d scream anyway if I tried making noise before I got to you,” Dream rationalized, and Sapnap was reluctant to admit that Dream was right. Dream took his silence as agreement, though, and he held out a small bottle filled with a dark liquid. “Found some medicine—supposed to help with colds and flus, according to the paper someone had stuck to it.”

Sapnap grimaced as he looked at the small bottle. “That looks nasty. Probably tastes nasty too.”

“Probably.”

Sapnap groaned. “Don’t grin at me like that. It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Sapnap rolled his eyes. “How much am I supposed to take?”

Dream glanced at the bottle, shrugging. “I couldn’t find anything on that. But there was this with it.” He held out a tiny plastic medicine cup, and Sapnap wondered if the medicine was cough syrup. “You know how to use it?”

Sapnap hesitated. “Well, kinda. But if that’s the good cough syrup, if I take too much, I’ll probably just end up sleeping really heavy.”

“Well, I’ll be here to keep an eye on things,” Dream promised. “So take some of that. Hopefully it’ll make things easier for you.”

“If I get sicker, I’m gonna be mad,” Sapnap complained, but he twisted the cap off the bottle, grimacing at the dark stain on the inside of the white cap. “This stuff looks disgusting.” He sniffed at it, but all he smelled was some vague fruity smell. “Smells like cough syrup, I guess.”

“Just take it,” Dream urged, and Sapnap sighed.

“Seriously, if this kills me, I’m gonna come back as a zombie and kick your ass.”

“Uh huh.”

Sapnap frowned. “You don’t believe me.”

“Whatever you say, Snapmap.”

Sapnap paused, the bottle halfway to the small plastic cup, his eyes narrowed. “You call me Snapmap again, we’re gonna have problems.” Dream’s sudden laugh dissolved into a wheeze as it often did. Sapnap rolled his eyes, taking a moment to rub at his throat, which was starting to itch, adding to the burning discomfort he’d already felt. “You’re horrible.” He ignored Dream’s laughter as he poured out what he hoped was a decent amount of medicine, and he tipped it back. The consistency was strange, and he wondered if cough syrup coagulated after too long sitting. It was almost nauseatingly sweet, and he nearly gagged on it but managed to swallow it down. The itchiness in his throat subsided almost immediately, much to his surprise, and the burn eased up a bit as well, though his headache remained for the time being. “Huh.” He held the bottle out, wondering just what was in it. “That’s some weird medicine.”

Dream took the bottle from him, twisting the cap back on. “You should get some sleep now.”

“I feel better now.”

“It might’ve only helped with your symptoms,” Dream argued. “You could still be sick. You need to rest.”

“Fine.” Sapnap sighed, leaning back into the pillows that were piled up against the headboard. “What about you? Aren’t you tired?”

“No. Besides, I told you I’d keep watch, didn’t I?”

“As if anything could sneak up on you,” Sapnap muttered, his eyes slipping shut. With a bed and warm blankets, it wasn’t difficult at all to get comfortable, something he hadn’t been able to do in a while. And with Dream promising to watch over things, Sapnap knew it he wasn’t in any danger. Fatigue from walking all day made him yawn, and he didn’t question it when Dream turned off the flashlight, instead slowly slipping into sleep.

\---

Dream waited until Sapnap’s breathing had evened out to leave the room, leaving the flashlight on the bedside table along with the small bottle of ‘medicine’. Dream grimaced, pulling up his sleeve. The bite mark in his wrist had yet to heal, and it wasn’t even bleeding anymore like it normally would.

The thought of blood keyed him into the loud beating of Sapnap’s heart, and his fists tightened, fighting to ignore that call. Yes, Sapnap had blood in his veins, but Dream had promised himself that he wouldn’t hurt his new friend, and right now, with Sapnap sick and Dream nearly starving… it was likely more than not that he’d kill Sapnap.

He stumbled away from the room, heading outside. Another winter storm was rolling in, and the cold wind snapping through the night soothed him, a relief from the warm, still air inside the house. He’d had enough of buildings—houses like this reminded him that he couldn’t recall what he’d lost from before, and it left him feeling trapped like he’d been in the lab before he’d broken out. He wondered for a moment what had happened to the other young man he’d broken out with—the one who was like him. They’d gone in opposite directions when they’d escaped, something Dream was mostly grateful for. While he’d have liked to have company—especially from someone he could talk about his struggles with—he doubted there would’ve been enough blood in either direction to sustain them both. As it was, Dream had difficulty finding blood for himself.

That thought reminded him of the armed party he’d heard moving through the town before he’d carried Sapnap out here to the suburbs. He was grateful Sapnap hadn’t questioned how he knew there were people nearby, and with guns—it would’ve been hard to explain that he could hear the soft click of a silenced gunshot as the party took out a zombie. He’d tried that with the first group of people he’d fallen in with, and he grimaced, recalling how the bullets had burned when they’d shot him upon discovering he wasn’t normal, along with possibly infected.

He listened to make sure the neighborhood was quiet. He needed to find blood, but he didn’t want to leave Sapnap alone if there was even a possibility of an enemy nearby. But he heard nothing but the wind—and thunder in the distance to accompany low flashes of light—and Dream decided he could go after the armed men he’d heard earlier.

Retracing his steps back to town was easy, almost instant now that he could run faster than he could while carrying Sapnap, pretending to be normal. Of course, while he’d been settling Sapnap into the house, the party had moved on, but Dream knew they had to be nearby. There wasn’t enough time for them to have gotten far, and besides that, he hadn’t heard the normal jangle of gear and the footsteps had been lighter than what he’d come to expect of most survivors—they weren’t carrying their supplies with them. That indicated they were camped out somewhere nearby, and Dream had to wonder how big their group might be. If it was large enough, perhaps he could convince Sapnap to stay in the area. They’d have supplies he could steal for Sapnap, and most importantly, they’d have the blood Dream needed.

He found evidence of their passing when he found the zombie they’d killed, and a trail of bodies led him further into the city, though the number of bodies grew fewer as he moved further downtown. But by that time, he no longer needed those as a guide—instead, now, he could hear the hum of electricity, and the murmur of many conversations. There were people close by, and a lot of them.

The glow of a few lights became apparent as he moved a few blocks closer. Most of them were at street level, but as Dream glanced upward in the gloom as rain started falling, he spotted a few places where covers over windows hadn’t fully blocked out all the light from inside.

The apartment building these people had claimed was huge. It rose like a tower in the darkness, briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning, a fortress of survivors. Some brickwork had been established against the nearby buildings, but for the most part, the path up to the building was blocked off by an assortment of trash bins, burned cars, and portable chain link fencing, along with a few sandbags and concrete barriers. The hollowed cars gave Dream places to hide as he moved closer to the building, listening carefully for any sentries.

There were many of them—it made sense for such a large group of survivors—and Dream guessed that it wouldn’t be difficult to isolate a few of them to feed from. He flexed his hands, his veins showing temporarily through his skin. He wasn’t completely out of blood, but his veins felt dry, and every inch of them burned as a result, as if he was being dried out in the sun. The thought of the sun made him glance skyward on instinct, and he was glad to see that the sun was nowhere in sight, and he returned his focus to the sentry he’d singled out. With the rain and the night’s darkness, visibility for the man would be poor, and he’d never hear Dream coming regardless. Dream carefully removed his mask, folding it and pushing it down into his pocket before creeping forward. He and Sapnap would _definitely_ be staying a while.


	6. Skeppy

“Stupid car!” Skeppy kicked the side of the car, yelping as pain lanced through his toes. “Ow, ow, ow! Okay, dumb idea. Don’t kick cars.” He attempted to catch his breath as he looked around, spotting nothing useful. The field he’d been driving through was empty, as far as he could see—weeds grew tall among whatever crops were still struggling to survive, left long past harvest—but even though there was nothing useful, there was nothing bad either. Storm clouds still darkened the sky to west, but for the moment, the rain had abated.

He should’ve expected it. While a half-tank of gas was quite the find, he guessed that after sitting so long, it wasn’t all that strange for the car to stop working entirely. Whether it was the gasoline or the engine itself that had gone bad, it still left Skeppy stranded out in the middle of nowhere, and while the sun was still struggling to light up the sky behind the thick clouds, it wouldn’t be long before it was dark, probably before true sundown. Skeppy wasn’t particularly happy about the idea of spending a night on the road in the open with rain threatening. Really, it sounded quite miserable.

Glancing back at the car, he sighed. He knew next to nothing about cars—he’d never be able to figure out what would be needed to fix it and finding any parts for it would be impossible. But it would serve as a suitable shelter for the time being, and sighing, Skeppy opened the backseat door, deciding that he could rest there and wait for the storm to pass, or at least spend the night. He didn’t want to think about what he’d have to do if the storm stretched on for more than the night. Despite all the gear that Technoblade had gifted him in the backpack of supplies, there hadn’t been a raincoat, or anything remotely resembling water-resistant gear. If the rain refused to let up, he’d end up soaked inside of a few minutes, which certainly didn’t sound pleasant. “Why couldn’t it be summer?” Skeppy complained. This part of the country was supposed to have dry summers—or at least that’s what he’d heard. He’d never bothered to fact check that before the internet had stopped being an option. “Would it really be too much to ask for some dry weather?” he complained to the roof of the car as he stretched out on the backseat. “But I guess that’d mean fires in the summer or something.” He hadn’t needed to fact check the fires that had burned every summer and fall in the western half of the United States—that _always_ had made the news. Even when the pandemic had worsened, the news had still been reporting about how well-contained—or how _not_ well-contained—the fires had been.

The rain started pattering down on the roof of the car and the windshield as he continued staring at the dead bulb and switch above him, offering a false promise of light. “Least I don’t have to worry about dying horribly in a fire with the rain.”

Lightning flashing, followed a while later by a boom of thunder, dissuaded him from hoping. “Okay, well, uh, maybe I can. That’d be greaaaat.” He had no idea of whether or not a fire could truly spark in such wet conditions, but he’d had enough of tempting fate—Technoblade had been close call enough. Despite the thoughts of the strange man he’d met, the sound of the rain was enough to lull Skeppy into an uneasy sleep.

He woke that morning to gray skies, but on the horizon, he could spot hints of blue. He debated waiting longer in the car, but he knew it’d be better to cover what ground he could while the sun was still up; traveling at night was asking to get hurt. Sliding out of the car, he grabbed his backpack and started packing what little he’d managed to take out of the backpack while driving.

“Where ya goin’?”

Skeppy yelped, hitting his head on the roof as he tried to spin around. Clutching his head with one hand, he managed to turn, and he gasped as he realized it was Technoblade standing in front of him, completely soaked but very real, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. “What! How are you here?!” Skeppy demanded. “That doesn’t make any sense!” How had a man on foot caught up to him when he’d spent several hours driving? It should’ve taken at least many more hours in good conditions, much less in the storm of the night before.

“That’s a trade secret,” Technoblade told him, his smirk still in place as he shrugged. “I have my methods.”

“Uh huh. What, can you teleport?”

Technoblade chuckled. “Come on, we’re not in a science fiction story.”

“I dunno, zombies are kinda sci-fi, aren’t they?”

Technoblade seemed to consider it. “Well, maybe. But we’re still not in a story. Teleportation isn’t real.”

“Then how did you catch up with me? How did you even _find_ me? There’s been like a million turnoffs between then and now.” Skeppy debated kicking the car again before his sore toes reminded him why it was a bad idea.

“I mean, it’s not exactly hard to follow the smell of gasoline when yours is basically the only car on the road.”

“The smell… you followed me from the _smell_? What are you, a werewolf?”

“Need I remind you that we’re not in a fiction story? Werewolves aren’t real either.”

“Then what the heck are you?” Skeppy demanded. “If you’re not able to teleport, and you’re not a werewolf, you have to be _something_. Like, regular people can’t exactly catch up to a car they’ve been tracking in only a few hours. You’re not normal!”

“It’s okay, I don’t have feelings,” Technoblade deadpanned, raising one eyebrow.

Skeppy hesitated, realizing he was venturing into dangerous territory, insulting a man who he’d witnessed only a handful of hours prior kill a group of armed men with ease. “I’m sorry, Technoblade. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Technoblade’s tone was still as flat as before, but he uncrossed his arms, now resting one hand on the hilt of the sword hanging at his hip, though it somehow seemed less threatening to Skeppy. “So why are you lookin’ like you’re leaving the car? Thought that’d be pretty useful, especially with rain and all.”

Skeppy blinked. “Um, well, I think it’s dead. It stopped working last night.”

“Hasn’t come back as a zombie car yet?”

Skeppy swallowed nervously, recalling how he’d kicked the car last night. “Um, you’re… you’re not serious about that, are you?”

“Course not.” Technoblade laughed. “Zombie cars? I mean, has _anyone_ ever seen a zombie car? I haven’t.”

“Well, no, but…”

“Well, then, we’ve got nothing to worry about.” Technoblade’s gaze darted briefly toward the blue sky beyond the storm’s border, but his focus was quick to return to Skeppy. “So where are you headed, when you’re not busy runnin’ from me?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, really. I’ve just kinda been wandering, looking for supplies, maybe other survivors I could join.”

“Other survivors? Last time you saw other survivors, they were ready to kill you.”

“You never know, there could be friendly people out there.” Skeppy’s hopes had been dampened by the outright hostility of many groups, but he was optimistic there had to be some good people left. “I mean, you gave me supplies when you didn’t have to.”

“That wasn’t me bein’ friendly,” Technoblade observed. “That was me lookin’ for dinner and letting you take the bait.”

“I thought you said… I thought you said you weren’t hungry then.”

“I wasn’t, but I hafta plan things out, ya know? Probably would’ve gotten hungry if you hadn’t led me right to that group.”

“Um… are you hungry now?”

“Nah. Won’t be for a while, at least, either, in case that’s what got you worried.”

“I’m not worried!” Skeppy said defensively, earning him a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, really? Then why’s your heart beatin’ faster?”

“It’s not!”

“Listen… Skeppy… I’m not a person to lie to.” His stare held Skeppy in place, and Skeppy rubbed his hands on his pants, feeling his skin break out in a cold sweat. “I can tell when you’re lyin’, okay? So let’s not do that.”

“Sounds good.” Skeppy cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from squeaking.

“Good.” Technoblade turned to look down the road, shrugging before he started walking. When Skeppy didn’t follow him immediately, he looked back. “Well, come on. I don’t have all day, ya know.” He glanced back at the dark skies overhead, and muttered to himself, though when Skeppy asked him to repeat it, he shook his head and resumed walking. Skeppy, meanwhile, hurried to catch up, barely able to get his backpack settled on his shoulders before stumbling after Technoblade.

Their path in the gray early morning light was quiet, following the road as it cut a path through the open fields. Low chirps echoed from a distance, and the grass hissed as it blew in a gentle wind, but otherwise there was no noise other than Skeppy’s footsteps and the occasional rock skittering across the asphalt as Skeppy kicked at them. Technoblade said nothing about this, but Skeppy wished as they went further that the other man would make some sort of noise. Much like before, the enigmatic man was soundless, and Skeppy guessed that if Technoblade didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be—it was only for Skeppy’s benefit that he could see Technoblade at the moment.

It was nearing what Skeppy thought might be midday when Technoblade requested that they stop in a small grove of trees, their thick branches overhead bare of leaves. Faint sunshine was slowly seeping down through the clouds and the weaving of branches, dappling the ground in strange patterns. Skeppy glanced further down the road, grinning when he spotted the sun starting to break through the clouds entirely. “Look! We might actually get some dry weather.”

When he turned around, Technoblade was nowhere to be seen.

Skeppy only spent a short time looking for the other man before once again reaching the conclusion that Technoblade wouldn’t be seen if he didn’t want to be. It was with this in mind that Skeppy resumed his trek, his feet aching even as he marched further down the road. It wouldn’t be the furthest he’d walked before, but after briefly having held the promise of a car, it made him acutely aware of the pain of walking so far with little to eat.

Technoblade found him after the sun set, appearing out of the dark as Skeppy set up a place to sleep in another grove of trees, this one on top of a hill overlooking a small town. This time, while he did scream, he felt like his heartbeat slowed faster afterward, and he was able to relax back against a tree as Technoblade sat down across from him. “You should start a fire. It’s going to be cold tonight.”

“Do I look very capable with fire?” Skeppy questioned, and he hurried to cut Technoblade off when he grinned. “Don’t answer that.” Thankfully, Technoblade didn’t attempt an argument, instead gesturing to Skeppy’s backpack.

“There’s a lighter in there. I’ll get the kindling and twigs ready.”

“Um, okay.” Skeppy hadn’t started a fire on his own—for the short time he’d been with other groups, it’d been his responsibility to gather kindling, and when he’d been traveling by himself, a fire had felt too dangerous. They drew attention that he knew he couldn’t deal with alone. A quick look at Technoblade, combined with how he’d torn apart the armed men before, told Skeppy that Technoblade wasn’t worried in the slightest what attention it might draw. Deciding that he could always hide while Technoblade dealt with any threats, Skeppy pulled the lighter from the backpack, activating it briefly to make sure it was working. A small orange flame blossomed at the end of the lighter, and Skeppy flinched when he saw the light reflected in Technoblade’s eyes. He let the light go out, and Technoblade took the lighter from him, rolling his eyes.

“Gotta do everything myself, I guess.”

“I could do it,” Skeppy protested, but Technoblade just told him to pay attention to how to actually make the fire, and by the end, while Skeppy guessed he’d scorch his fingers multiple times in an attempt—even Technoblade dropped a few pieces of burning kindling when it got too close to his fingers—he at least had an idea of how to start a fire if Technoblade left him.

That was if the other man didn’t kill him first.

Skeppy still wasn’t entirely sure what Technoblade meant when he referred to people as dinner. As he slowly ate his own dinner of a can of beans—heated, for once—he debated asking the other man. “Hey, um, Technoblade?”

“Techno.”

“What?”

“You can call me Techno. Bit less of a mouthful than Technoblade.”

“Then why…?” Skeppy shook his head, knowing Techno would likely have some strange explanation for that alone. “Never mind. But… when you called me and the other people dinner… what did you mean by that?”

“Would you prefer the term prey?” Techno’s eyes were closed as he leaned back against a tree trunk, away from the fire. “Because I suppose I could use that, but…”

“No! Uh, no thanks. But are you like, Hannibal?”

“Who?”

“The cannibal guy—Hannibal.”

“I’m not a cannibal. Or at least I don’t think I am.” Techno shrugged. “I drink blood—does that make me a cannibal?”

“Maybe? Well, I mean, maybe not, because I think you have to actually like, eat the person to be a cannibal? Drinking blood is more of a…” He trailed off. “Are you a vampire?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Techno opened one eye. “A lot of them with obvious answers. Do a little thinkin’ for yourself.”

“So you’re a vampire.” Skeppy said it quietly as Techno’s eye slid shut, the other man letting him muse aloud. “So I guess you’re not _really_ a cannibal, since you’d have to be human to be a cannibal, I think.”

“Well, now that we’ve got that figured out, are you gonna sleep or stay up all night talking?”

“Uh, which answer means you won’t kill me?”

That actually drew a chuckle from Techno. “Either of them. I’m in a good mood right now.”

His words of course hinged on ‘right now’, but Skeppy thought he might be able to press forward with his questioning. “So you’re a vampire, and you have to have blood. How often do you need blood?”

“Wonderin’ when I might get hungry and start lookin’ at you like dinner again?” Techno hummed.

“Well, it’s not a bad thing to wonder about,” Skeppy pointed out. “Or maybe I just need to know when I gotta find some creep for you to chew on or something, so you don’t get hungry or thirsty or whatever.”

Techno snorted softly. “It’s self-preservation for you either way.” His eyes opened again, and Skeppy bit his cheek as he made eye contact with Techno. “It varies. Depends on who I’m hunting.” His head tilted sideways just a tad, watching Skeppy intently; his gaze shifted in sync with Skeppy as Skeppy drew circles in the dirt with a stick. “With you… it’s sooner than later.”

“Great.”

“I might not kill you,” Techno offered.

The stick slipped from Skeppy’s fingers and he stared at the vampire. “You’re kidding me, right? Is ‘oh, I might _only_ horribly maim you’ supposed to be comforting?”

“Well, probably not, but in my defense, I’m not the best at this whole socializing thing.”

“I’d say obviously, but I think that’s a bit of an understatement!”

Techno’s eyes slid shut again. “Now we’re looking at a bit later.”

The statement was like whiplash for Skeppy. “What…?” He gripped his pocketknife tightly, wondering how much of this being treated like he was nothing more than cattle he could tolerate. Maybe he could…

“Don’t try sneaking away in the dark,” Techno commented almost offhandedly. “One, I can see in the dark, and two, there’s zombies in almost every direction that you’d run into and _you_ can’t see them in the dark. Besides, even if you got very far, it’s not like I couldn’t find you. Not like the road is going anywhere interestin’ right now.”

“How did you know I was thinking about running?” Skeppy demanded, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his pocketknife. Clearly, it’d do little to help him, if Techno could piece together that he was planning on running and could see in the dark—even with the fire illuminating Techno and their immediate surroundings, the light wavered, flickering in and out of existence, keeping Skeppy from safely judging what was around him.

“The voices told me—along with your heartbeat, again. I told you, I’m not someone you can lie to or hide things from. I know when things are sus.”

“You mentioned voices when we first met,” Skeppy recalled, deciding there was no reason to revisit Techno’s inhuman hearing. “Are… how… how do they work?”

Techno shrugged. “I don’t know. They just started up when I became a vampire or whatever. They tell me things sometimes. Mostly they just shout random stuff at me. Like right now, they’re just repeating the letter E at me.” Techno tilted his head sideways. “You’d better hope they don’t start demanding blood. If they decide…” He paused, and Skeppy wondered if he was listening to these voices. “Oh, no, right now they’re shouting at me to protect you. Huh. That’s unusual. Usually they want me to tear people apart.”

“So they’re the whole sooner or later bit?”

Techno nodded. “I can handle it if a few of them want blood and the others are just messing around or being helpful, but when they all start asking for blood… they don’t stop until I give it to them.”

“Great.”

“Just stay on their good side and I guess I won’t have to kill you.” Techno’s laugh made Skeppy’s throat feel tight, and he swallowed with some effort, but the vampire’s next words made him regret ever approaching a backpack that had clearly been bait. “Or at least, you'd better hope they want me to make it quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'm as happy as I could be with this chapter, but it's officially done. :D Lol, Techno disappeared and gave us no content for what, three weeks? I've gotta go watch a bunch of his old stuff again, and get a feel again for how I want to write his character. Hope you enjoy, though! Comments are always welcome and appreciated. :)


	7. Tommy

Wilbur shouldered his pack, gripping the straps tightly. “I need to go see what’s held Phil up.”

“Right now?” Tommy questioned, glancing outside. “I mean, yeah, it’s been a day, but maybe he’s trying not to bring the zombies this way? Phil’s a big man.”

Wilbur placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I know he can handle himself, Tommy, but if he’s trapped or something, I don’t want to leave looking for him too long. Besides, I need to see if I can find something better to bandage your arms with.”

“Tubbo did a good job with these!” Tommy said defensively, glancing back at his friend, but Tubbo was instead peering through the window that overlooked the large front yard of the house and the road that lead back down into town. “I’m fine, Wilbur, really. We should come with you.”

Wilbur shook his head. “I appreciate you offering, Tommy, but I want you two someplace safe—I don’t want to drag you right back into things down in town.”

“You’re babying me again,” Tommy accused, and he watched Wilbur wince with some amount of satisfaction.

“I don’t mean to, honestly. But I can move faster on my own, and I do think that you should avoid injuring your arms any further. Any more damage to them and you won’t be able to hold a weapon, much less fight a zombie.”

Tommy debated arguing further, his next words already forming on his lips, escaping in a sharp inhale before he closed his mouth, his eyes rolling upward as he processed Wilbur’s words. He stared at the plain white ceiling for just a moment before sighing, the action blowing his long blond locks off his forehead momentarily. “Fine. Tubbo and I will stay here, hold down the fort.” He said the last words sarcastically, but Wilbur took him at his word.

“Good. I’ll hopefully be back with Phil in a few hours.”

“And if you’re not?” It was Tubbo who spoke up, letting the curtain fall back into place as he turned to face them. “What if you’re not back in a few hours?”

“I _will_ be. But if I’m not…” Wilbur hesitated, glancing between the two of them. “Tommy will be in charge—it’ll be up to you to decide what to do, Tommy.”

“Yes!” Tommy shouted, but he bit his lip and glanced toward the floor when Wilbur stared wordlessly. “Sorry, Wilbur. I’ll… I’ll be responsible about things.”

That made Wilbur laugh, much to Tommy’s relief. “You, responsible? I’ll believe that when pigs fly. But I know you’ll argue with Tubbo anyway if I put him in charge, so it’s just easier if I start with you.” Tommy didn’t argue that point, and Wilbur straightened his backpack again, exhaling loudly. “Okay, I’m off. Make sure the light doesn’t shine out the windows, and…”

“We’ll be fine, Wilbur,” Tommy interrupted. “If you’re going to go, you can go.” He recalled their conversation from the church. “But I’m sure Phil wouldn’t be mad if you stayed here,” he ventured. “I could go out and you could stay here with Tubbo and wait in case Phil turns up.”

“No, no, no. I’ve already told you—you’re staying here. I meant that.” Wilbur’s knuckles were white around the straps of his pack, but he loosened his grip to reach for the door handle. “Lock the door behind me.”

“Like it’ll do any good against a zombie,” Tommy muttered.

“But it’ll keep people out or let us know they’re here.” Tubbo spoke, and not for the first time—nor, Tommy was willing to bet, for the last time—what he said made sense. “Go ahead, Wilbur. We’ll lock the door and keep things quiet.” He offered Wilbur a smile, and Wilbur returned it, though to Tommy it seemed more like a grimace than a smile.

“I’ll see you boys in a bit.” And then Wilbur closed the door behind him, and Tubbo locking the door meant Wilbur was sealed outside for now. The rain had slowed, at least, but Tommy knew enough to know that the clouds boiling on the horizon beyond the valley the house looked over meant the storm still had more in store for them.

Tommy only left the window behind once Wilbur was out of sight, turning to face Tubbo, who’d sunk down into an armchair across from him, spinning a Rubik’s cube around in his hands, one of the few sources of entertainment small enough to carry around with them. “You think this house has anything fun to do?”

“I dunno—there might be a chess board somewhere, if we’re lucky. Maybe Monopoly.”

Tommy grimaced. “I’m going to lose if I play either of those against you—you’re so much better at them than me. I hardly understand the rules for them.”

Tubbo grinned. “Maybe should’ve spent some time playing something other than video games.”

“Oh, don’t you say that to me too.” Tommy rolled his eyes. “What are you, my dad?”

“Ha!” Tubbo got up from the armchair though, pushing his Rubik’s cube down into his backpack. “Come on, let’s have a look around.”

“Can’t you look on your own?” Tommy complained, though he climbed to his feet anyway. “You’re so _clingy_.”

“I am not!”

“Are too!”

“It’s not like you had anything else you were going to do,” Tubbo challenged, and while Tommy knew Tubbo was right, he wasn’t going to admit as much. And so he followed Tubbo around the house, helping search through the bedrooms for any board games the previous inhabitants might have left behind. Much to Tommy’s relief, there was no chess board—the Monopoly game they found meant he at least had a slim chance of winning.

They played for several hours as night descended, and finally, they had to turn on a small lantern for light or not be able to see anything in the dark house. They gave up their Monopoly game, after a while longer though, the passage of those hours finally catching up with them. “Wilbur shouldn’t have gone out so late,” Tommy muttered after a moment. “He won’t be able to see anything out there. He should’ve waited until morning.”

“Do you think he’ll find Phil?”

Tommy hesitated, torn between lying to Tubbo to make his friend feel better and telling the truth. When Tubbo’s eyes narrowed, though, Tommy opted for the truth. “I dunno, Tubbo. I hope so. Phil… Phil’s our friend. I have to hope he’s okay.” He glanced down at his bandaged arms, and his fists tightened, pain lancing through the tender, bruised muscle underneath the wrappings. “I’d be out there looking for him if I could.”

“We’d just end up more separated though,” Tubbo rationalized, leaning back against the bed behind him. “And all four of us would be on our own.”

Tommy shook his head. “We’d stick together,” he told him. “No way would you and I split up.”

“Clingy,” Tubbo teased, a small smile brightening his face. “I told you.”

Tommy exhaled loudly. “I mean it, Tubbo.”

Tubbo shrugged. “I never said it was a bad thing, Tommy.”

“Oh.” Tommy cleared his throat, glancing around. “Maybe we should get some sleep. It’d be silly for both of us to…”

A low thud, followed by the sound of shattering glass, made both young men freeze.

“Tommy… what was that?” Tubbo whispered, his smile gone.

Tommy’s gaze jumped to the doorway, dark outside of the light of their small lantern. “I…”

Their lantern. He spun to look at the window, gasping as he realized it was uncovered. They’d forgotten to hide their light from outside.

Tubbo reached the same conclusion he did moments later, lurching for the lantern. Tommy stopped him from turning it off though, catching his hand. “We’re gonna need it to kill whatever just came in downstairs. Cover the windows,” he ordered instead, and Tubbo scrambled to his feet, pulling the dusty curtains shut, and hanging a blanket over the curtain rod as well. Tommy, meanwhile, approached the stairs with the lantern in hand, peering down the stairs while gripping a knife tightly in the other. The grip was weak though, and Tommy was loath to admit that Wilbur had been right—his injuries made it difficult to properly hold a weapon. But for Tubbo, he’d manage. He flexed his fingers around the handle of the knife, making sure his hand wasn’t sweaty before moving toward the stairs, peering down into the darkness below. There was some faint groaning—the sound he’d come to expect from the undead—but there was nothing on the stairs, for the moment.

Tubbo’s whisper behind him nearly scared Tommy out of his skin, and Tommy was grateful it wasn’t his first instinct to swing the knife in his grasp. “We’re gonna need to go down there to get out,” he realized. “If there’s more than even two, we can’t wait them out up here. We’d get trapped.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Tommy muttered. Thankfully, it’d become instinct for them to keep their packs nearby at all times in case they did have to flee, and Tommy gestured to where they were leaning up against the footboard of the bed. “Get your stuff ready. We’ll have to probably fight our way out.” With all the zombies that had been in town… he didn’t think only one would’ve been attracted to the light shining out the window.

“I hate this,” Tubbo whispered, but he slid on his pack, helping Tommy shoulder his after.

Tommy, of course, agreed, but now wasn’t the time he could complain. He could complain once he got them to safety. He debated handing off the lantern to Tubbo to keep him from any fighting, but he knew that if Tubbo was attacked, he’d freeze with the lantern in his hand. Instead, Tommy kept ahold of the light, the shadows in the hall twisting in and out of sight as he made sure Tubbo had a firm hold on his multitool. Tommy didn’t understand why Tubbo used it instead of a simple knife, but it was at least effective.

“Come on.” Tommy crept down the stairs, knowing full well that his light descending would be like a beacon to whatever had broken in, but he had no choice—it was better to attract them like moths than for him to lead Tubbo into them blind.

Sure enough, the first zombie snarled at the bottom of the stairs, lurching into sight out of the blackness. The stairs at least gave Tommy the upper ground, and he kicked the zombie’s legs out from under it, sending it crashing back down the stairs, where it rolled into the couch. Two more zombies appeared, and Tommy debated having Tubbo go back to look for a way out one of the windows. But now the zombies were climbing quickly, and Tommy yelped as dirty, bloodied hands reached for him, their skin blackened from the necrosis, nails longer from where the skin had pulled back. Deadly, if they reached him.

He managed to knock one down, though it clawed at his shoes as he moved to deal with the other, and Tommy was grateful for the thick boots Wilbur and Phil had insisted on. He stomped on the zombie’s hands, gagging at the sound of bones snapping, all while lunging forward with his knife, using his height to knock the second zombie into the wall, pinning it there as he put the knife through its eye socket. The zombie stopped its struggling immediately, sagging until it collapsed onto the stairs next to the other one, which Tubbo had killed by stabbing as well. Blood stained the stairs, and Tommy carefully stepped around the two fallen zombies, hurrying down toward the one that was just now climbing back to its feet after the tumble it’d taken. That tumble had snapped one arm, and the broken bone jutted through the rotten flesh. Tubbo knocked its feet out from under it with a kick to the knees, and Tommy smashed its skull under his boots with several stomps, catching himself on the back of the couch when he slipped. But three zombies were dead.

Tubbo picked up the lantern from where it’d fallen out of Tommy’s hand, lifting it up and shrieking as he spotted what was outside the front window, beyond the broken pane of glass, jagged edges gleaming. Beyond that, a small crowd of zombies milled, temporarily having been lost without the light to guide them in the dark of the night. But now that Tommy and Tubbo were shining the light right through the open window, they had their target, and Tommy knew it was time to go.

“Tommy!”

Tubbo shouting his name was the only warning he got that they’d missed a zombie already in the house. Tommy threw his arms up in front of him as the zombie lunged for him, instinct prompting to keep his head and face safe, even though he couldn’t see where the zombie was coming from immediately. It placed his arms at risk, though, and he shrieked as the zombie, having lurched right for him, attempted to bite him. The only thing that saved him was the thick wrappings Tubbo had used as temporary bandaging. The zombie’s teeth weren’t able to puncture the wrappings, instead tearing them open.

Tubbo, balancing his feet on the arm of the couch and one hand on Tommy’s shoulder, lunged forward over Tommy, shoving the knife of his multitool through the zombie’s eye, an easy target with its head turned up to bite at Tommy. The zombie collapsed, and Tommy caught Tubbo as he overbalanced and slipped from the couch, landing on his feet with a thud. “Thanks, Tubbo.”

“Not the first time I’ve killed a zombie,” Tubbo pointed out with a shrug. “Please tell me it didn’t bite you, though.”

Tommy lifted the arm that had blocked most of the zombie’s attack, revealing mangled wrappings—the cloth turned gray where the zombie had tried biting—but his arm was unbitten, the only injuries those from the tumble he’d taken in the street while running. “No bites,” he confirmed.

Tubbo sighed softly. “We’ll have to rewrap them at some point, but right now, we need to get out of here.” He glanced at the broken windows, where zombies could be seen slowly advancing on the house. “They’re gonna surround this place.”

“How do they know where we are?” Tommy complained, grabbing his backpack. “They always find us.” He tore off what loose wrappings he could off his arms, not wanting the loose fabric to get caught on anything.

“I dunno. Maybe they can smell us or something.”

“You tellin’ me I stink?” Tommy frowned.

“I should think it’d be obvious,” Tubbo said blandly, prompting Tommy to roll his eyes, though he abandoned any arguments. With the zombies closing in, they needed to go.

“Come on.” Tommy took the lead as he peeked out the glass doors that led out onto a small patio. This direction seemed clear, at least for the moment, and he leapt from the patio, Tubbo right behind him. The light from their lantern swayed wildly, revealing a dark stretch of trees ahead of them, and distantly beyond that, a gray stripe was illuminated in what little moonlight there was—a road. Tommy wasn’t sure that running through the trees at night was a good idea, but hopefully it’d give the zombies more obstacles than running through empty streets or open fields that were present on the other sides of the house. “This way.” Tubbo followed him into the night, heading for the trees.

He’d been right about running through the trees at night, though by the time he realized that, it was too late for them to turn back—their flashing light would still be a beacon luring the zombies to them. The trees loomed into view in frightening patterns, and the undergrowth, soaked from the rain that had fallen in the hours previous, hid the ground under their feet, obscuring tree roots and brush that caught at their pants and tried to hold them back. Tommy’s overworked mind immediately dreamt up that the grass under the trees hid zombies grabbing at their ankles, trying to bring them down to bite them, and every bare tree branch was a hand reaching out to pull him back. He wasn’t sure he’d have even braved this place during the day, but he had no choice—they had to keep going. Just like they had since Chicago had fallen, they had to keep going.

Exhaustion battled with terror in Tommy’s limbs, slowly weighing him down like lead, combatting the burning of his lungs as he gasped for breath, leading Tubbo further away from the house. They’d been on the run for so long, and every time they’d thought themselves safe… It was only that fact that kept Tommy’s head on a swivel, kept him moving, and kept him checking that Tubbo was still moving. They couldn’t afford to be complacent now. They’d thought themselves safe at the church and at the house, and both had proven to be false hopes. They couldn’t stop at least until it was light outside, when their light would no longer act like a dinner bell to all the undead in the area. Once it was daytime, and they were on the road, maybe then they could take a break. They had enough supplies with them to set up a small camp, and he and Tubbo could split a few hours on watch while the other slept.

His plan decided, Tommy continued to forge through the small forest, attempting to battle down the fear that rushed back up every time a branch grazed his shoulder or when he stubbed his toes on tree roots and rocks alike.

They made it to the road as the horizon slowly lightened—not yet dawn, but it’d be there soon. They’d spent most of the night wandering through the trees, and Tommy realized they’d probably gotten turned around several times—the stretch of trees hadn’t been _that_ wide. He shivered in the cold predawn air—they’d gotten lucky they hadn’t stumbled back into the arms of the zombies. _That_ certainly wasn’t the way Tommy wanted to go.

Tubbo finally managed some words after spending most of the night silent. “Do you think… do you think Wilbur found Phil? Or do you think…?”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Tommy froze as Tubbo mentioned Wilbur and Phil, glancing back the way they’d come. “They’re not going to know which way we went. We…”

“Maybe we should’ve left them a letter,” Tubbo realized, his face paling as he glanced back through the trees that hid away the sight of the house they’d left behind. “But I think they’d at least realize we’re not dead, right?”

Tommy’s brows pinched together as he tried to figure out what to do. “Well, unless they think we turned into zombies and shambled out into the woods.” Which they’d seen happen before, but Tommy didn’t want to think about that. “Uh, maybe we can circle back, try and see if they’re still in town.”

“The town’s infested though.”

Tommy tugged a hand through his tangled hair, exhaling loudly. “I _know_ , Tubbo! I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” Tubbo pointed out quietly.

That gave Tommy momentary pause, but he brushed past it quickly. “The town _is_ infested, and we don’t even know…” He didn’t want to think about the possibility, as if speaking it would bring reality to it. “Wilbur and Phil… they… they might not…”

“Please don’t say it,” Tubbo whispered, his eyes widening, despite him having nearly voiced the possibility just moments earlier. “Please, Tommy.”

Tommy nodded, swallowing. “Okay. Well, uh, maybe if they can’t find us… they’ll keep looking for Techno—so we should keep heading that way too.”

“West, you mean?”

Tommy squinted at Tubbo, taking the opportunity to distract his friend from his worries. “Don’t confuse me with those weird directions.”

Tubbo rolled his eyes. “What would you call it, then? Left?”

“Yeah.”

“I really hate you sometimes, Tommy.”

“I know.” Tommy was surprised to see his words were cheerful, and an explosive laugh escaped him, the sound hoarse; laughing was a rare reward in this world. “Come on, Tubbo, let’s go find Techno. He’s probably still inside playing video games, and someone should break the news of the apocalypse to him.”

Tubbo nodded briefly, and Tommy took the lead, following the highway leading off into the distance, the sun slowly rising and breaking through the dissipating clouds behind them to light their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends another chapter. :D Sorry for the delays in getting the chapter out--got hit with another round of exams. But I've already got the next chapter written, so there'll be no delays next time! Let's hope I stay on top of things and keep getting ahead, lol. As always, I hope you enjoyed! Comments are, as usual, welcome and appreciated. :)


	8. George

“Ow! Get off me!” George squirmed underneath the boot pressing down on his neck, which pushed down harder when he spoke until George was left gasping for air.

“Check his bag—see if he had anything good on him,” the man pinning him down ordered to one of his companions, who picked up George’s pack, where George had been forced to drop it. George was forced to watch out of the corner of his eye as the man went through George’s pack, and George decided that he really, _really_ , didn’t like the US. He didn’t know if things were any better in the UK, of course—things on the news had indicated otherwise, before the news had ceased to function—but homesickness made him biased, and he wished he’d argued more with his family about coming to vacation in the US. And so he was forced to watch as the man pulled out George’s few items of clothing to throw aside, pulling out the precious cans and bottles of water that he’d spent so long collecting. There was also a small tool set, but that was thrown away with his clothes. A small envelope of photos he’d had printed last-minute also was tossed aside, and George bit his lip, trying not to make any noise—he guessed the man with a boot on his neck and a gun to his head wouldn’t tolerate it. Lastly the man searching his bag pulled out the small stash of medicine George had managed to collect through scavenging and trading with other survivors. A few painkillers, a few antianxiety meds, and some antibiotics, and now they were all being pocketed by these men. While there was a chance George would be able to find food and water—if with some difficulty—it’d be nearly impossible to replace that.

“Looks like today was successful.” The man removed his boot from the back of George’s neck, but another man dug his knee into George’s back, and George struggled to breathe as the man grabbed his arms, yanking them back behind him until George’s shoulders ached. “Got some extra food, some meds…” He held up a can that George had been carrying. “Huh, pineapple.”

“I’d been saving that,” George managed to gasp. “That’s mine.”

“Well, it’s mine now.” The man laughed, looping the gun he was carrying over his shoulder with the strap that had been hanging loose on it, and he used the knife from his belt to carve open the can, spearing some of the pineapple with it, humming when he ate. “Hmm. That’s good.” Meanwhile, George was lifted into a sitting position after cold handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists, keeping his arms pinned behind him. The man approached as George managed to get his knees under him, and the man waved a piece of pineapple in front of George’s face. “You want some, huh?”

“You know what, screw you.”

The man simply raised his eyebrows. “You talk funny.” He snorted. “Woulda thought all you British people woulda went back home before this went to shit. And look, here’s another American fucking up the British. Love to see it.”

George couldn’t help rolling his eyes; the man was so stereotypically American. “America’s not even a country anymore, you idiot.” His confidence died out when the knife slashed across his cheek, not enough to really hurt him, but enough to make him screech, his cheek burning.

“You keep your mouth shut, or next time it’s your tongue,” the man warned. “I only need you to have your hands and feet and eyes—boss man ain’t said nothing about you needing your tongue.”

“Or all his fingers or toes, really,” another man observed. “Last time I checked, there was a lady with only six fingers working the gardens.”

The leader crouched in front of George, wiping the blade of his knife on George’s shirt, though with how shallow the cut on his cheek likely was, there probably wasn’t much blood in the first place. “And really,” the man said quietly, “I don’t even need you to have all that. Really, we’ve got enough workers and mouths to feed that I don’t need your head connected to your shoulders, if you catch my drift.” George nodded carefully when the man waited for a response, and the man clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking George over. “Good. I’m feeling generous today because of the lovely pineapple, so I’ll let you come back to camp with us. You can work with some of the other laborers. You’ll get food and a place to sleep, and maybe if you’re lucky, maybe you can join the big boys and girls and actually get to own things for yourself. But if you keep sassing everyone like that… ‘fraid you’re not gonna make it very far.”

George was hauled to his feet a moment later by one of the other men, and he glanced back at the photos when the man pushed him forward. “Can… can I at least keep my photos?”

“What for?” The leader pulled another piece of pineapple off the end of the knife, as if he just hadn’t finished cutting George up with it. “They’re useless. Leave ‘em.” He motioned to the men and women in his group. “Come on, let’s get going. We’ve still gotta search the next couple of blocks, and I wanna get back before dark. Something’s been picking off patrols in this area late at night.”

George glanced toward the sky, where the sun was slowly staining the sky the colors of sunset—the colors he’d never been able to see. But the change from blue to more muted colors was enough to let him know that the sun would be below the horizon soon, so either this group didn’t have much left to search, or they were going to be stuck out here after dark, and George didn’t fancy an encounter with something that could eliminate a patrol as well-armed as these people seemed to be. Despite that, the light slowly died as the sun sank, the sun’s rays no longer touching the ground. It left them in the gray state of twilight just before true darkness, and the patrol leader said there was still at least another block to check out. By now, though, the rest of the patrol was growing uneasy, their weapons held more tightly, their gazes roaming more noticeably from side to side, carefully searching the growing shadows.

“You know what, let’s call it a day.” The patrol leader called them off early, though, and he motioned for them to turn around. “Let’s get back to camp.”

Their pace grew more hurried now, and George stumbled several times. With his arms behind his back, he couldn’t catch himself when he fell, and the sides of his arms were scraped open on the pavement. The first few times he was hauled back to his feet, but by the third or fourth fall, it was clear that the leader was growing irritated, because he kicked George in the side while George was still down, and George once again was left gasping for breath—no doubt there’d be a nasty bruise. “Stop fucking falling, or I’ll leave you out here for…”

“Leave him alone.”

All of them stilled as they heard a person speak—one who was not part of the group. Craning his head sideways, George found the person, and realized there were actually two people that weren’t part of the patrol. He wanted to tell them to run; as much as he’d love to be rescued, he doubted there was much two men could do against a patrol of six.

“Who the fuck are you?” the leader of the patrol demanded after a moment of silence. George guessed he too was trying to figure out what prompted such audacity for two people to demand something of him.

The man with the dark hair tied back with a white headband was the one who spoke again. “I said, leave him alone.”

“You don’t have a choice here.” George’s gaze jumped to the man in the dark jacket—George guessed it was probably green—and George shivered as they made eye contact. Something about this man made George want to run—it was the same instinct he had when he encountered zombies. Perhaps it was his quiet, even tone, as if he was discussing what he’d had for dinner instead of attempting a hostage negotiation. “Let him go, and give him his things back.”

“Why should I? What the fuck are you two gonna do? You can’t do shit!”

“Oh, really?” Despite the mask the man wore, George could hear the smile in the man’s words. He let the words hang in the air, and the patrol all tightened their grips on their weapons.

The leader of the patrol glanced once at two men wielding axes on the edge of the group before nodding and doing so to two others wielding a machete and a pistol. The latter two struck immediately, aiming for the masked man, and the two axe-carrying men pushed in between the two survivors, knocking the headbanded man off his feet. One of them swung the axe up, and George screamed—he’d never seen another person killed in front of him, and he had a good feeling this man was going to die.

His scream, however, drew the masked man’s attention away from his own fight, and he glanced back at his companion, eyes widening. The machete aiming for him slashed through empty air as the man suddenly _moved_ , abruptly in between his companion and the axe that had been descending for his neck. Instead, with his taller height and his arm outstretched to stop the man carrying the axe, the axe sheared downward through the masked man’s arm.

His shout was unintelligible, a mix of actual screaming and pained gibberish. George felt his breath catch as he realized the axe had severed the man’s arm entirely at the elbow. Blood poured from the wound as the man stumbled back, dropping the axe he carried as he clutched his arm to his chest.

“Dream!” The other man shouted for his companion, his eyes widening. He managed to roll back as the patrol advanced on him, though he too dropped his own fire axe, the weapon slipping from his fingers. “Oh my God, Dream!”

George had no idea how the masked man was still on his feet, and he understood even less how he managed to leap forward to throw himself between the path of one of the patrol’s guns and the headbanded man, a bullet tearing through his shoulder and spraying blood out the other side.

“Run, Sapnap!” The man shouted, pushing his companion toward a gap between two of the houses. “Run!”

The man named Sapnap shook his head, though, shouting that he wouldn’t leave Dream. But even as they were arguing, and the patrol closing in, the man named Dream pulled off his mask, shoving it in his pocket.

The snarl that rose from the man was far from human. Certainly, humans _could_ make that noise, but it wasn’t _normal_. The patrol hesitated momentarily at the sound, and it was their undoing.

Dream moved like the wind, shoving his companion Sapnap behind an abandoned car before spinning around and sliding to knees to grab his fallen axe. He beheaded one man before the patrol opened fire, and the loud report of the guns made George’s ears ring.

It wasn’t enough to muffle the screams when Dream took the head off another man and buried the axe in the chest of a third man, leaving only two others besides the leader. Dream then lunged at one, leaving his axe behind as he tackled the man to the ground. The man screamed as his gun was knocked out of his hands, but his screams abruptly turned into gurgles as Dream lowered his head over the man’s neck, and George’s eyes widened. Was… was he _biting_ him?

The spray of blood when Dream quickly sat upright was answer enough for George, and George’s breathing quickened as he spotted the blood dripping down Dream’s mouth, Dream leaning to the side to spit out the flesh he’d ripped from the man’s neck. George struggled to get his feet under him, but with his hands behind his back and nothing for him to brace himself on, he could only kick uselessly at the pavement.

Dream, however, paid him little mind, instead picking up the pistol, and the gun was held almost lazily in his one remaining hand, as if he had no concerns about missing. And certainly, when he pointed it at the leader of the patrol, who’d already started running—apparently, he was a flight man more than a fight man—the bullet flew true. The leader crumpled like a rag doll, dropping onto the pavement without a sound as the bullet caught him in the skull.

That left one man alive, and he too had started to run. Dream rotated the gun around before shrugging, dropping it next to the man whose throat he’d torn out, climbing to his feet with an air as if it was pre-apocalypse and he’d simply decided to get up from a couch to go get a snack. He paused only momentarily to pick his severed arm up off the ground. George stared as Dream held the arm back up to what was left still attached to him, and the muscle and tendons started knitting back together.

“What the hell?” George whispered, and he was forced to watch as Dream went after the one remaining member of the patrol, his silent walk speeding into a run before Dream covered the distance in a leap—even with the man’s head start, he’d never stood a chance.

This time, Dream didn’t rip out the man’s throat, instead wrapping his arms around the man and holding him close, his body hiding any sight of what he was doing from George.

But George hadn’t survived this long by being stupid. He knew biting was bad news—that was what the zombies did. Maybe this man Dream had been infected, and he’d finally snapped when he’d been fatally injured. He finally managed to latch his feet over the edge of the pavement, and he pulled himself over the edge. Getting his knees under him allowed him to rock back and push his way to his feet, and while being handcuffed wasn’t ideal, it was better than being dead. He carefully shuffled back away from Dream, deciding that it’d be better to try sneaking away—running clearly hadn’t worked for the patrol.

He’d just turned his back when Dream spoke. “At least let me take off the handcuffs for you.”

George spun back around, gasping when he found Dream right behind him. Even in the growing darkness, it was easy to see he was stained in blood from nearly head to toe, including his face. His teeth, however, were blindingly white, and George’s eyes widened at the sight of what could easily be called fangs.

“What’s up with your teeth?” Once again, George found himself with an inability to keep his mouth shut when he needed to, and it made Dream pause.

“What?”

And much in his usual fashion, George doubled down without thinking about it. “Your teeth. Those aren’t exactly normal.”

“I just had my arm chopped off and reattached it, and you’re worried about my teeth?” Dream’s voice shot up in his incredulity, his eyebrows both raised. “My _teeth_?”

“Well, to be fair, you did just kill two people with those teeth.” This time it wasn’t George who spoke, but Dream’s companion, Sapnap, who’d finally emerged from behind the car, his eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’ve worn the mask this whole time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Sapnap.”

“Nuh uh, Dream. You don’t get to just brush it off like you do all the time, pretend everything’s fine after I just watched you lose your arm and get shot, like, a million times! You should be _dead_. I think the _least_ you can do is explain the teeth.”

“Ugh.” Dream rolled his eyes. “Sapnap, please, can we just wait until…”

“No. I want answers.”

“Fine! Fine, you want answers?” George’s eyes widened as Dream raised his voice, spinning around to properly face Sapnap. “You wanna know what I remember? I remember some scientists turning me into their little lab rat, even though I don’t know why! And then I find out they infected me with something that turned me into, I dunno…”

“A vampire?” George supplied, thinking of how Dream had seemingly drunk the blood of two of the men, and Dream nodded, immediately resuming his tirade.

“I guess a vampire. It’s what some other people called me before they tried killing me when they found out. So yeah, you might see why I’m a bit reluctant to show my face when that seems to clue everybody in immediately!”

Sapnap’s gaze was latched to the ground. “I’m sorry, Dream. I didn’t… I didn’t know. How _could_ I have known?”

All the fight seemed to go out of Dream. “You couldn’t.” He sighed. “Look… we’ll talk about it later, okay? I promise.”

“We’d better.”

George gasped as cold hands suddenly contacted his, Dream having disappeared from sight and presumably having moved behind him. But then George’s wrists were free of the handcuffs, and he took the chance to stretch his arms, his shoulders aching. “Uh, thanks.” George hesitated. “Um, not that I’m saying you shouldn’t have, but… why did you save me? Surely I’m nothing to you.”

Dream shrugged as he moved back around in front of George, moving at a more human pace to search through the dead men’s things. “I’m not a complete monster. I’m not just gonna kill someone—or let somebody kill somebody—that needs defending.”

“Do I need defending, then?”

“Well, clearly.” Dream snorted. “They took all your stuff and then took you hostage. They could’ve easily killed you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along with you then, would you? Since I need defending?” George normally would’ve taken the chance he’d been given and left town on his own, but with Dream seeming nearly indestructible—or at least, very hard to kill—George knew that being around the man had to be one of the safest places for him.

“We don’t even know your name!” It was Sapnap who protested, but Dream cut him off.

“What _is_ your name?”

“George.”

George decided he didn’t like how Dream looked at him, eyeing him briefly like he was a piece of meat. The look vanished quickly though. “Well, _George_ …” He tested the name out, pausing momentarily. “If you don’t mind living with two people after what’s probably been a long time on your own, sure, you can join us. I wouldn’t mind the company, and it wouldn’t hurt Sapnap to have someone more… normal… around.”

“What are you, my dad? I can pick people I want to be around on my own,” Sapnap complained.

“The last people _you_ decided to be around gave you the flu,” Dream said with a raised eyebrow, and Sapnap rolled his eyes before turning away to join Dream in scavenging through the dead men’s belongings. “Up to you, George.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Good. Help us look through this stuff—I wanna be outta here by the time the next patrol comes through, and there’ll be one that comes back this way from the edge of town in about a half hour.”

“Do you mind if I go grab some things that they threw out?”

“I don’t mind.” Dream, however, abandoned the backpack he’d been searching, yanking his axe out of the man he’d last killed with it, and George grimaced at the sight of the blood congealing on the weapon. Dream paused to listen, his eyes darting back and forth before he nodded. “Sapnap, you stay here and find what you can. I’ll go back with George to get his things.”

“Try not to lose another arm,” Sapnap joked, clearly already in a better mood. “I’ll be here.”

George followed Dream as he took off down the street, and he didn’t question how Dream knew which direction to go. Instead, he let himself relax just a bit, deciding that perhaps his luck was looking up after all this time—what were the odds that the world’s only vampire had decided to offer him protection? Maybe being in America wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's George, finally! I wrote this chapter wayyy in advance because I was excited to have him show up and couldn't wait that long to write it, lol. Hope y'all enjoyed! As always, thank you for reading, and comments are appreciated. :)


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